


Adventures in High Life

by wildestranger



Series: Adventures in High Life [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the serpentinelion Fantasy Fest in 2006. Harry Potter, having insisted on cohabiting in the Malfoy Manor in the course of his Auror duties, make a nuisance of himself. Fortunately, Draco is too well bred to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

Balls at Malfoy Manor were not frequent. Like most young gentlemen of his class, Draco Malfoy preferred events that were paid for and organised by somebody else. But his mother's 40th birthday required a party; to do otherwise would have indicated familial feuding or an embarrassing loss of funds to the society at large. That this was the fifth time Narcissa had celebrated her fortieth birthday did not diminish the importance of the occasion.

Yet Draco, standing in his mother's dressing room half an hour before the ball, was already bored.

"Darling, when are you going to give me a proper son-in-law and make Blaise an honest man?"

As this wasn't the first time the question had been asked, Draco allowed a slight smile to answer it. His mother, he hoped, was not too serious.

"Blaise and I are just friends, Mother. And you know he would take exception to being called honest."

Although his friendship with Blaise included a number of non-platonic benefits there was no reason to mention this to his mother. Particularly as she had caught them at it several times.

Narcissa Malfoy smiled and added an additional feather to her veil. They were five in all; each one representing one year of widowhood. Draco noted that this one happened to be purple.

"Well, at least you could invite him to stay for longer this time. You know that town house of his is dreadfully small and filled with his mother's friends. I'm sure he'd be much more comfortable here."

Narcissa's disapproval of Ms. Zabini was common knowledge. Her refusal to wear feathers for any of her husbands had caused a scandal years ago, and Lavinia Zabini's arrival to parties with a diaphanous veil (Like an unmarried girl! Unashamedly transparent!) still managed to produce whispers.

"Yes, Mother. Although I'm perfectly aware that you only ask that because you like to find him sitting opposite you at the breakfast table."

"Yes, dear. Such a charming young man."

Rolling his eyes, Draco flicked his riding crop against his boots. His mother's flirtation with Blaise was almost as outrageous as Blaise's flirtation with his mother.

"And stop playing with your riding crop. It won't do to wear one with a dusty edge. You'll look like you've been disciplining the elves."

"I thought that was the point?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes in a way Draco had tried, unsuccessfully, to emulate for the past ten years.

"No, dear. The master of the house wears his riding crop to show his command over his household. But you are not expected to actually chastise the help with it. It's merely an ornament. As I believe I have told you before."

Draco gave his mother a long look through the mirror and brushed his ornamental riding crop against his robes.

"Yes, Mother."

With a regal nod his mother turned back to her mirror, and straightened the neckline of her robes. Cleavages were arranged low that year and as Draco tactfully averted his eyes from his mother's bosom, he was once again grateful that the ladies' fashion differed significantly from that of the gentlemen. He preferred to wear his robes high in the neck and long in the sleeves; fitted, of course, but without showing unseemly amounts of skin. Having more layers to strip off and more skin to reveal made the experience of being undressed more enjoyable. Of course, it also made Blaise somewhat more frustrated, which never failed to delight Draco.

His robes for this evening were red, a shade a tad darker than Narcissa's, with embroidered silver snakes on his sleeves. It was a colour he rarely chose for himself because of its Gryffindor connotations, but for his mother's sake, on her birthday, an exception was always made. Not that Draco was displeased with the way his skin became luminescent rather than pasty when contrasted with burgundy silk. Blaise often said wine looked good on him.

Perhaps there would be time later on to test that theory once again. After he'd got rid of his robes, of course; it wouldn't do to stain them.

: :

Two hours later, the ball was proceeding successfully along the lines that had been marked down for it. Narcissa had opened the festivities with the traditional burning of a hag effigy (Stringent Ministry regulations made it difficult to use a real one) and wine had been flowing ever since, although so far only from glass to mouth. Less conventional routes would be initiated later on, no doubt, in less public locations. Draco had danced with his mother, with two cousins (separately, as it was not yet time for the _triangle suedoise_), and with Pansy Parkinson, who had told him more than he had ever wanted to know about the sexual habits of Justin Finch-Fletchley and why it would be fun to be a Muggle countess.

He was enjoying a bottle of burgundy (slightly paler than his robes) and a nice piece of gossip with Blaise Zabini, when a slight commotion caught his attention.

There were Gryffindors at the door.

Draco opened his mouth and what had been intended as a mildly disapproving tone turned out to be an infuriated hiss.

"Blaise, did you invite them? You're not a member of this family yet, you know, so try to refrain from acting like one!"

The smirk was inevitable and Draco could hear the lazy amusement in Blaise's voice, as he watched the group slowly extricate itself from the umbrella stand that had proved so disastrous for Gryffindor ankles. Why there was an umbrella stand by the door Draco had no idea; perhaps it was part of the new anti-Auror measures.

"I'm just waiting for your mother to propose. As for them, I gave Hermione an invitation. Told her to bring some friends."

Most of the time Draco tried not to let Blaise's tone, intended for maximum exasperation, affect him, but some things were just too much.

"There's a Weasley at my party!"

"At least it's a Miss Weasley. Could have been worse, you know."

"But why? I realise that you must associate with Granger at work…"

Blaise gave him a stern look.

"Kindly remember, Draco, that it's not work but a leisurely pursuit of knowledge. Work is not for gentlemen."

"But why invite her here?"

"Shush now. They are coming to greet their host."

The smile on Granger's face was so far from being friendly that Draco found himself at loss for words. Clearly they didn't teach them to keep up appearances of conviviality towards people one disliked in Gryffindor. Perhaps they saw it as a form of honesty rather than bad manners. Draco shuddered.

"Granger. What a pleasure. And Weasley. How lovely to see you again."

The greeting, delivered in the flattest tone possible, caused Blaise to raise an eyebrow and Granger's smile to falter. She did not, however, run away as had been intended, but instead answered with a modicum of politeness.

"Malfoy. So kind of you to have us. Hello, Blaise."

Before Draco had time to make an unfortunate comment about not having her if she was covered in dark chocolate and sprinkled with port wine, he was distracted by the look on Blaise's face. To an unaccustomed observer, the quirk in the corner of his lips would have meant nothing, but Draco recognised the signs of predatory interest. He had to blink twice when he realised whom Blaise was talking to.

"Longbottom. What a pleasure. So glad you could come."

Longbottom nodded and smiled in a self-deprecating way. Draco was still in shock when he saw the person next to him. Sadly, there was no tact left in him by that point.

"Potter? What the fuck are you doing in my ball?"

There was a moment of silence, observed by everyone in the hall in anticipation of some violence, before Potter flashed his teeth, smiled with far too much pleasantness, and answered smugly.

"Hermione invited me."

Blaise coughed, no doubt to suggest that Draco should not say _Granger why the fuck did you bring Potter to my ball._ Draco frowned in a way that might have been perceived as pouting by some people, but which really indicated regal displeasure.

"I see. How kind of her. And dare I ask, what, er, tempted you to accept the invitation? Not that you aren't most welcome, _of course,_ but I must admit that it is somewhat surprising to see you here."

Potter nodded, as if to say he took that to mean at Malfoy Manor rather than among civilised people. Oh well. There would be time to correct that assumption later.

"Actually, I wanted to have a word with you. In private. At some point."

Hearing Blaise take in a mildly shocked breath (being able to hear it at all indicating the enormity of the disturbance), Draco managed to limit his response to a slow blink. Surely Potter must be aware of the significance of that line, usually delivered in a suggestive whisper daringly close to one's ear, and not in a loud, earnest voice in the middle of a ballroom. Yet Potter's face, shining as ever with mild confusion and eagerly expecting a response, implied that he did not.

There was only one thing one could say to that.

"Of course. Perhaps after dinner, in the library? I'll have somebody show you the way."

Potter grinned, all appearance of intense innocence disappearing from his face. Draco felt Blaise shift against his elbow.

"Brilliant. Thanks!"

As the group moved on, accompanied by Longbottom's blush and Miss Weasley's unseemly scowl, Draco attempted to practice speaking without moving his lips. Blaise's chuckle intimated that he was not successful.

"Do you know what that was all about?"

"Not really. Granger was only supposed to bring Neville. Don't know about the others."

"Neville? Are you cheating on my mother, Zabini?"

"No, I'm cheating on you."

Draco lifted his hand to take hold of Blaise's collar and pulled him closer. Slowly, on account of the hand-woven embroidery and delicate silk, but without giving him the chance to pull away. Quietly, he asked:

"Blaise. What the fuck is going on?"

The dark eyes, usually hidden in contemptuous amusement at the rest of the world, were focused on Draco's silver cuff links. The tongue that came to wet Blaise's lips was not intended to seduce.

"I don't know, Draco. Potter has always been weird. You know I don't associate with him."

"Yes, yes, beneath you and all that although not in a good way. But what about Longbottom?"

Blaise's lips quirked, and he looked up at Draco.

"He blushes, don't you know. And he's not stupid."

Knowing Blaise, this could have meant anything from showing a strong disapproval of Wordsworth to a detailed understanding of Russian Arithmancy.

"Has he read _Clarissa,_ then?"

"No. But he has read _Tom Jones._"

"I see. And does that indicate a sufficient amount of staying power?"

"It's not bad."

They were both grinning now, and regardless of the deep contentment it would give his mother, Draco pressed a chaste kiss to Blaise's cheek.

"Well, then. Let me know what happens. I'll be curious to hear how he compares."

With an indulgent roll of his eyes Blaise moved away and Draco decided this would be a good time to sample the punch. Wizarding Punch, like its Muggle counterpart, consisted mostly of alcohol and a variety of unrecognisable fruit juice. The fruit, however, was somewhat more animate than is common. The kiwi fruit was clearly making indecent propositions to the mango, which was attempting to hide its fleshy bits. This being a mango, it was somewhat difficult.

Draco resolved the problem by picking up the mango with his fingers (to the scandalised glares of both the house-elf in charge of the bowl and the kiwi fruit) and sucking it into his mouth. As his mother raised an eyebrow at him from the other side of the room, Draco filled up his goblet with green liquid and smirked at its reflection in the faces of the people standing by.

***

Blaise's hands on Narcissa's waist were really quite too tight. Draco would have to have another talk with them and remind them of the proprieties of publicising familial incest. There were rules about these things, after all.

In order to avoid watching his mother's hands moving lower on Blaise's back, Draco moved to stand next to Daphne Greengrass. She was observing the Gryffindors, who appeared to be congregating near the drinks table, with some suspicion.

"Draco? I don't believe I've ever seen those…_people_ at one of your parties before. New acquaintances?"

Draco took a long sip of his drink before answering. A resistant piece of the mango fizzed against his tongue.

"Blaise invited them. I understand he is hoping to acquire a new pet."

The carefully drawn brown arcs, which masqueraded as Daphne's eyebrows, rose to new and unusual heights.

"Oh? Don't suppose you know which one? Or should I say which ones?"

"Couldn't say, really."

Daphne gave him an incredulous look. Draco was forced to show her the correct way of lifting one's eyebrow. She didn't seem to appreciate the performance, however, but continued with a bored drawl.

"Well, that's interesting. Don't imagine it's Ginny, though. She would have said something."

"Ginny? My god, is everybody fraternising with Gryffindors these days?"

There was enough smugness in Daphne's shrug for Draco to decide that it wasn't nearly as elegant as she liked to think.

"We have the same hairdresser."

As Ginny Weasley's auburn locks continued to flow in much the same way they had flown for the past ten years, that is, everywhere and with every appearance of never having met a comb, Draco was at loss to find similarities between her hair and Daphne's carefully coiffed faux-pageboy look. Fortunately, Daphne grew bored of the silence and decided to interrupt it with pointless trivia.

"Did you hear Potter has been promoted again?"

Now this, on the other hand, was the reason Draco had practised nonchalance in his youth.

"You speak as if you expect me to know what Potter is doing with his life, and as if I would be interested, but I can assure you that both these hypotheses are false."

Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Hypotheses? Have you been reading Blaise's books again? _Anyway,_ as you should know, Potter is an Auror. It has been mentioned by _The Daily Prophet _a few times. He works for the Department of Dark Artefacts and Other Objects Unsuitable for Wizardkind. And he has just been made head. "

Draco ignored all the unfortunate puns that crowded his brain at that moment.

"Surely you don't actually expect me to read _The Daily Prophet_?"

"What else would you read? _The Quibbler_?"

"Perhaps I choose to limit my knowledge of what is mistakenly known as news of the wizarding world to actual gossip, rather than besmirch my mind with such wanton displays of bad writing."

"I see you _have _been at Blaise's books again. Didn't he put an expelling hex on his library last time?"

"You assume that I couldn't get past any hex that Blaise can do?"

As the look of profound doubt on Daphne's face didn't change, Draco continued.

"And you assume that Blaise would leave his house without a pocketsize library hidden in his robes, from where in a moment of distraction I might have been able to remove it?"

The grin that displayed itself on Daphne's lips was unnervingly pleased with itself. It took a moment for Draco to realise which piece of blackmailable information he had just parted with.

Fortunately, he knew how to distract her.

"And speaking of robes, did you see what Potter was wearing? You'd think someone would have told him that that shade of red will look atrocious on him."

Narrowing her eyes in a way that suggested she knew she was being played, Daphne nevertheless sought out the offending sight on the other side of the ballroom. Finding Potter in earnest discussion with Longbottom, her smirk turned pleasantly malicious.

"Are you sure you're not just saying that because he makes your robes look faded in comparison?"

Potter, catching their eyes on him, shifted slightly on his feet. The collar of his dressrobes was too tight, leaving painfully red scratches on the skin of his neck, which could be seen even from across the room. Draco scowled at Potter's inability to buy himself clothes that fit, then realised what he was doing and attempted to smooth out his forehead. It would not do for the host to look displeased at his own ball. Let alone grow wrinkles at his age.

But Potter was still looking back at him and Draco couldn't help grinding his teeth just a little. How annoying that one's childhood nemesis could still make one so, well, annoyed.

"…although they are rather atrocious."

Draco scowled a little more, and turned away. There were better things to look at in the room than Potter; Malfoy balls were the most coveted events of the season for a reason. Discovering Anthony Goldstein in shallow conversation with the Assistant Head of Wizarding Press Association, Draco allowed his feet to lead him to the other side of the room and prepared to foster mutually beneficial and blackmailable connections.

: :

Potter was in the library when Draco arrived, reading the spines of the books above the fireplace. Draco considered saying _I didn't realise you could read,_ but then reminded himself that he wasn't Blaise.

But then Potter turned around and the urge to scowl or frown or throw something at him resumed. It was like an itching under his nails, made worse by the sight of Potter's red ears and cheeks flushed with punch, or the way he stopped biting his lip and stepped up as soon as he saw Draco.

Draco folded his arms across his chest and lifted his eyebrow. Since neither his mother nor Blaise was around, there was no need to behave like a gentleman.

"What do you want, Potter?"

A corresponding frown rose to mar Potter's forehead further, and Draco allowed an almost invisible smirk to form on his lips.

"I've been promoted, and…"

"Oh well done, Potter, congratulations and all that, I say, that's quite marvellous, old chum…"

Draco discovered that a never-ending drawl could make the flush on Potter's cheeks deepen.

"As I was saying, I've been promoted to the head of my department, and I've recently realised that the biggest load of work on my desk is you."

"Why, Potter. I've never been on your desk, being worked or otherwise…"

It also appeared that Potter had developed quite a glare at some point since leaving school. If it was anyone else giving it, Draco might have considered being intimidated.

"Be that as it may, continued raids at Malfoy Manor are a waste of the Ministry's time and resources. That's why…"

"Not to mention a dreadful toll on my mother's tea service. The Aurors keep breaking them, you know. One would think they've never seen charmed tea-cups before."

A slight pause followed, during which Potter let out a long breath and attempted to roll his eyes.

"Would those be the charmed teacups where a little snake raises its head from the tea and hisses every five minutes?"

The polite tone of inquiry in Potter's voice made Draco want to grin maliciously. And there was no reason to fight the urge, really.

"That would be them. Family heirlooms, don't you know."

"I see. Can't imagine why anyone would be surprised by that."

"I know. It's dreadfully barbaric."

"Quite. Anyway, in order to spare you mother's teacups…"

"And the carpets!"

"…And the carpets, as well as the resources of my department, I propose to set up a thorough and _final _investigation of Malfoy Manor. In order to do that we need to go through every nook and cranny in this building, every broom closet, every house-elf nest and every torture chamber…"

"My great grandfather's collection of medieval _objets d'art _is not a torture chamber!"

"…And to settle for once and for all that there are no dark artefacts here."

Draco blinked. This really wasn't what he'd been expecting when Potter had intimated that there was business to discuss.

"No _illegal_ dark artefacts, at least."

There might have been a slight smile on Potter's lips. There definitely was a rolling of the eyes, which almost made him look civilised.

"Yes."

He would need more time to think about this. And, of course, it was always a good idea to antagonise Potter.

"How come you're so sure that we don't have any? We might have just hidden them very well."

"I don't think your mother's stupid enough to keep such things lying about."

Narrowing his eyes at the implication that he might be, Draco chose to use another approach. Guilt was always good with Gryffindors.

"And what makes you think this time shall be any different from the others? You send some person here, he breaks some cutlery, ogles my mother, gets scared by the boggart in the pantry, skulks around for a few days and files his report. There will still be people saying that he was bribed, or hexed, or was merely too incompetent. Then the whole thing starts again."

"Not if the person we send is me."

That. That would certainly require some thinking over. And perhaps a little panicking as well.

"Wait. You want to set yourself up here, in my house, and go through my things? In the middle of the season?"

"Erm, yes?"

The determined glint in Potter's eyes faded a little and was replaced by mild confusion. Perhaps the last sentence had come out a little too high. Draco knew that his uncontrolled expressions of outrage tended to unsettle people.

Not that this was a bad thing when Potter was concerned. Draco felt a manic grin tugging at his lips, and seeing the confusion and annoyance deepening on Potter's face, he decided to go with it.

"Potter, you fraud. You just want to get in on all the balls!"

A blink, and a slight shuffling of feet. Draco smirked.

"Well, actually, I don't think it will be necessary for me to go to any balls. Seeing as I'll be working and all."

The evident hesitancy in Potter's voice could only be answered by outright laughter. Mocking laughter, of course.

"Potter, if you think you're going to be a guest in my house and not be dragged around all season you are sorely mistaken. My mother would never forgive you."

It appeared that Potter did have enough manners not to tell Draco that his mother could mind her own business. It also appeared that Potter didn't doubt the veracity of Draco's statement.

Draco allowed another grin to form on his face. It was good to know the weaknesses of one's adversaries.

"Right then, I shall inform my mother that we are to have another houseguest. Let me know when you plan to arrive, and I'll have a room prepared for you."

Potter nodded, looking at him warily before making an awkward motion towards the fireplace. Just as he was about to reach for the floo-powder, Draco called, causing Potter to spill all over his robes.

When it came to Potter, he didn't even pretend to be mature.

"Oh and Potter? I'll send you a list of the suitable accoutrements you'll need. Can't go around looking like a peasant, can you?"

Tilting his head, Draco made a show of looking up and down Potter's body, taking note of the mess he had just caused.

"Although, in some cases, I suppose there's only so much one can do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's comments on Blaise and his mother are paraphrased from Oscar Wilde, _The Importance of Being Earnest_, 1895. Algernon Moncrieff: 'My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.'
> 
> Samuel Richardson's _Clarissa Harlowe_(1747) is a famously long eighteenth-century novel (1500 pages in the Penguin edition). Henry Fielding's _Tom Jones_ (1749) is somewhat shorter (800 pages)


	2. Part Two

The first morning after Potter's arrival, Draco had planned to get up early in order to be perfectly dressed and coiffed to watch Potter make a fool of himself. A late night with Blaise, however, caused him to wake up to the sound of the breakfast gong, rather than to the subtle Awakening charm an hour and a half earlier. As he stepped quickly towards the breakfast room (the speeding hexes his mother had installed when he was a child were still in place), his hair dripping slightly from the bath and his light morning robes wrinkled, he consoled himself with the thought that Potter would probably be both late and wearing something gaudy.

Yet his first glance through the door revealed that Potter was not only sitting across the table from Narcissa, clean and neat and wearing green of all things, but was also showing no visible signs of insecurity.

Draco had to remind himself not to frown.

"Good morning, Mother. Potter, I see you managed to find the breakfast room."

"Yes, thanks. The instructions you left were a bit…confusing, but luckily Narcissa sent a house-elf to find me a few minutes before the gong. I'm sure I would have got terribly lost otherwise."

As his mother gave him a sweet smile, Draco decided not to ask her to stay out of his plans for sabotaging Potter's stay. Wait, _Narcissa_?

"Most lucky, Harry dear. I can't imagine what Draco was thinking, sending you down to the dungeons to find the south wing."

"Perhaps he was a bit distracted, with all these guests in the house."

"No doubt."

Well. There didn't seem to be any need for Draco to participate in this discussion, so he merely quirked his lips in a desultory fashion, and sat down. Focusing on the serving trays before him, Draco began to gather up a suitable plate.

A few minutes later, he noticed that the conversation had died down around him. He also realised that during his attempts to not pay attention to Potter and his mother, he had neglected to put butter on his croissant. Oh well. Blaise was always teasing him about eating more healthily and getting more exercise, even when (or especially) he was unwilling to provide said exercise himself, which Draco thought terribly inconsiderate. It's not like he was anything other than a very fit young man. Still, he couldn't be bothered to add any butter.

Opening his mouth to take a delicate bite of his croissant, Draco looked up to find Potter watching him. It was a thoughtful gaze, with no hint of mockery or even suspicion, and it made Draco mildly suspicious in turn. He kept eating, though, and didn't look away until a sound at the door signalled the arrival of their other guest.

Blaise didn't look like he'd stayed up until four in the morning drinking through a new shipment of viognier. His pale-blue robes would have looked incongruous on any other man at this time of the day, but Blaise Zabini, bending down to kiss Narcissa on the cheek, was as impeccably alluring as ever. And, as Draco noticed when receiving a kiss on his turn, he had clearly had time for a morning walk in the gardens. There was a stray bougainvillea leaf in his hair.

Potter, on the other hand, was watching Blaise with some trepidation as he rose from the second kiss, causing Blaise to raise an eyebrow at him and murmur, "You wish," before seating himself next to Draco. For the first time that day, Draco felt a natural grin rising to his lips.

"I see you haven't yet started the _ex libris _charm."

There was a barest hint of disappointment in Blaise's voice. Draco glanced at his mother, who smiled serenely.

"We were waiting for you, Blaise. The breakfast sermon wouldn't be quite the same without your contribution, you know."

Adding a little more charm to his indulgent grin, Blaise flicked his wand. A scroll of parchment rose from the side table and began to read:

"As all young men, on their first outset in life, are in want of some experienced and friendly hand to bring them forwards and teach them a knowledge of the world; I think I cannot do the rising generation a greater service, than by directing the young man's steps, and teaching him how to make his way among the crowd. I will suppose him already instructed in the principles of religion and necessity of moral virtues: (for without these he must be most unhappy) of course shall, in a series of chapters, point out under distinct heads, the qualifications necessary to make him well received in the world, without which he cannot expect to bear his part in life, agreeable to his own wishes, or the duty he owes to society; and as Modesty is the basis of a proper reception, I shall begin with that. "

As tones of mellifluous gravitas began to fill the room, Potter swallowed his sausage with a bit too much haste. After his coughing had drawn the attention of everybody in the room, he spoke:

"Can I ask what that is?"

Draco was hoping for a longer pause to drill in Potter's shameful ignorance, but Blaise couldn't be restrained when distribution of knowledge was concerned.

"An_ ex libris _charm allows any text to be read out loud. There are ways to control the tone of the voice and the delivery and such, but for the most elementary charm," Blaise almost concealed his instinctive sneer here, "words on a parchment are spoken. Howlers are based on it, you know, although it's fallen out of use since the nineteenth century…"

"And you listen to this every morning?"

A slight narrowing of the eyes was the only sign of displeasure on Blaise's face. He continued calmly:

"It is customary to read out educational literature during breakfast: it saves the trouble of speaking from those who find it difficult to communicate in a humane fashion before their second cup of tea, and also allows for the repetition of edifying thoughts. Lord Chesterfield's Letters are a classic of the genre."

At this, Draco felt compelled to respond, even though he knew that disparaging Blaise's taste in literature would mean no blowjobs for the foreseeable future. Yet, he reminded himself, he was a Malfoy. He couldn't be expected to behave rationally at all times.

"Indeed. I should point out though, that not everybody has eighteenth-century conducts books read out to them at breakfast. Most people seem content with the news."

"Most people are philistines."

Draco had once held a bet with himself over how many times he could make Blaise use the word "philistine" in a day. As he still held a small scar in his ankle from where the ropes had been tied in the following altercation, he thought this would be a good moment to withdraw from the discussion. Luckily, his mother stepped in.

"Quite so. Which is why I'm so pleased that you thought to revitalise the tradition, Blaise. I particularly enjoyed Dr. Fordyce's _Sermons For Young Women_."

"For young women? Surely, Narcissa, you don't need any…"

Perhaps this might be a good time to start grinding his teeth.

"Oh it wasn't not for her. Blaise was thoughtful enough to charm the text to read "young pureblood heir" instead of "young lady". Thus providing both himself and my mother months of merriment."

There was a definite smirk hovering around Potter's mouth.

"I see."

"Although I must admit, it wasn't nearly as much fun as having Marquis de Sade's _Justine _read out to us last summer."

"You listen to porn over breakfast?"

"Nah, that's just Blaise."

"I hope you're not besmirching my ancestor, Draco."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Narcissa placed her teacup in its saucer with somewhat more strength than was necessary.

"I for one rather enjoyed listening to the poor girl's account of her adventures."

Potter blinked a few times, then continued to mechanically chew his toast.

"Right."

"So you see, Harry, that Blaise tends to have a most edifying influence with his presence. I hope you'll be able to benefit from it as well during your stay."

The looks of horror which displayed themselves with various amounts of subtlety on both young men's faces would have been enough to keep Draco in smirk for the next two weeks, if he hadn't been aware that he would have to participate in any company that Potter kept. The idea of watching Blaise play with Potter was curiously unappealing.

"Well, let's hope it'll be an interesting experience for us all."

Potter sounded hopeful, but there was a slight tremor in his voice, which Draco decided to contribute to abject fear. Whether Potter's disturbance was caused by Blaise or his mother remained to be seen.

: :

After breakfast Potter began to make noises about starting work. In order to avoid any more accidents with furniture (the umbrella stand had been most useful the previous night), Draco offered to show him the house. The uncharacteristically sunny smile, which had accompanied the offer, might have been the cause of Potter's discernible suspicion. Nevertheless, the offer was accepted. Whether it was because Potter thought it best to have an idea of the house before starting his investigations, or because Draco had threatened to put a _Suivis Suivatum_ hex on him, Draco couldn't say.

They had walked through the turquoise drawing room, the dining room, the jade drawing room, the music room, the olive room and the southern ball room, before Potter opened his mouth. Draco was in the middle of explaining his great great grandmother's estate near Seville, and the olive grove, which had been the inspiration for her favourite sitting room, when a few awkward _hem hems _escaped Potter's mouth. Draco stopped and turned to face him.

"Yes? Did you have any questions?"

Despite the regal appearance Draco knew he possessed, there were distinct signs of amusement on Potter's face. He was looking down at Draco with almost a coy smile, the curve of his mouth implying that Potter was utterly unconcerned about his obvious inferiority. Draco found his fingers seeking the handle of his riding crop in reassurance.

"Oh no, I'm sure that what you've just told me about Serafina Malfoy's, erm, _interest _in olive trees is as much as anyone would want to know. I was just wondering about something else."

Another smile, this one even more blatantly flirtatious. Draco didn't try to stop the scowl that formed on his face.

"Well?"

"Why is Zabini here?"

Draco's scowl quickly turned into a smirk, as he envisaged telling Blaise that Potter had come sniffing around him.

"He's a friend of the family. Why, do you fancy him?"

The fantasy was soon ruined when Potter shook his head and laughed. Draco barely had time to reflect on the unlikelihood of somebody not fancying Blaise before Potter answered.

"I've got no interest in Zabini, thanks. I was just curious. I'd have figured you'd have a pureblood bride by now."

At that, the slow look of consideration returned. Potter was watching him with the same thoughtfulness he had given to his breakfast, as if Draco was a sausage he was chewing over. Draco decided to return to that most disturbing thought later, and gestured for them to resume their walking as he prepared to give his usual spiel.

"Well, there's the small matter of me being gay. Not that that would have been a problem for most of my ancestors, but as it happens, I have no interest in getting married or having children."

Potter nodded, matching his strides to Draco's and continuing to observe him with interest.

"Won't you need an heir, though?"

A small smirk was due at this point. Draco indulged himself and noticed a corresponding widening of lips on Potter's mouth.

Disturbing indeed.

"Look at you, Potter, getting all gossipy! And no, actually, I don't. There's a cousin with a large crop of pureblood children. I'll designate one of them as my heir once they get a little older and I can see which one looks most intelligent."

"I see you got it all figured out, then."

"But of course. It wouldn't do to be unprepared."

A slight tone of indignation might have crept in his voice to mix with the smugness. Draco speeded up his steps and was pleased to see Potter narrowly escape walking into a wall as a result. Some things never ceased to entertain and comfort.

"What about you? Are you still making cow eyes at Miss Weasley, or has some other young creature caught the attention of the great Harry Potter?"

"What? Oh no, Ginny and I split up ages ago. To be honest I'm not that bothered about making that kind of plans just yet. I went out with Oliver Wood for a bit, but it didn't work out. So no pretty young creatures at the moment."

The mild annoyance, brought on by the thought _why would you be honest with me, I'm a Slytherin! _was disrupted with _fuck, Potter likes to shag boys? _There was a suggestive grin on Potter's face to indicate that he was well aware of Draco's surprise and enjoying it to the full. Draco narrowed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine, in revenge, bending Potter over a desk in the library and spanking him like a schoolboy until he spilled all over Blaise's notes.

It was only when Potter began to blush that Draco remembered hearing something about Legimiency lessons with Snape. And as Potter continued to watch him with curiosity and consideration, Draco decided that this would be a good time to leave for his afternoon appointment with Blaise.

"Right, well, I'm sure you'll find your way around now. If you get lost, call a house-elf. And don't forget we are dining at the Parkinsons' tonight. You did get my owl about the robes? Great, see you at seven then."

As Draco made his departure, he couldn't help noticing that Potter was smirking rather openly by now.

Perhaps he could convince Blaise to practice another form of exercise instead of fencing.

: :

The dinner at Parkinsons' was an annual event in the memory of a common ancestor who had gone over to take a look at the French Revolution and been accidentally guillotined. Aloysius Malfoy had been only thirty when he had left his wife and children, murmuring something about blissful dawns and youths , and run off to the other side of the Channel to be swept away by excess of revolting sentiment. Personally, Draco thought the man was a fool (with an abhorrent taste in literature, as Blaise liked to remind him), but it was a family tradition to get together and drinks toasts to commemorate him. Also, there were nifty accessories involved.

Draco was exceedingly pleased with his new collar. As a teenager, he had insisted on ones with trickles of blood running from them, or, on one occasion, a leather one (which his father had quickly Vanished with a blush), but these days he tended to prefer collars that were more subtle. Embroidered black satin, only half an inch wide, circled his neck, with unobtrusive little buttons in the back. For this occasion Draco always tied back his hair, to show the intricate work on the collar as well as to emphasise the delicacy and paleness of his neck. The smallest button rested just above his spine, drawing attention to hidden flesh and the perfect arch of his back.

The clothes he had advised Potter to wear were similar to his, black robes and a narrow black collar, although neither the material nor the fit were as fine as his. Draco wondered whether Potter even knew how to dress himself properly and amused himself briefly by imagining sending Blaise over to assist. But entertaining as the look on Potter's face would be (few people could manage a well-dressed Blaise Zabini without blushing, especially if he wanted to be charming), Draco knew that Blaise would hex him for asking. Especially as Blaise had vehemently denied ever fancying Potter, and had shown no emotion other than mildly malicious amusement upon hearing of Potter's questions. He had, however, been most interested in Potter's discussion with Draco. So much so that he'd even allowed Draco to nick his wrist with his rapier without complaining. Although Draco's offer to lick the wounds might have had something to do with that.

Smoothing down his robes, Draco turned around in front of his mirror. The Parkinsons' house was always too hot, no doubt in order to allow for the display of many heaving bosoms. Draco's breeches were of a light material, but with the under-shirt, the vest, the jacket and the outer robes he was wearing enough layers for cooling charms to be necessary. Fortunately, charms for comfortable temperature were one of the first things he had learned as a young wizard.

Black didn't usually suit his complexion, but Draco knew how to pick a shade that made his skin look luminescent and preternatural rather than pasty and lifeless. Blaise liked to tease him about looking like a vampire, but as such conversations generally ended up with Draco offering himself to be bitten, he chose not to take offence. In any case he liked his colouring, liked being pale and white like both his parents and unlike most other people. Draco had firm beliefs about the natural superiority of blond people.

And of course, next to Potter, he would look infinitely more alluring. Not that that was difficult.

: :

Annabella Parkinson didn't bat an eyelid on seeing Harry Potter among her guests, from which Draco surmised that Blaise had been gossiping with Pansy. That Pansy kept giving him suggestive looks and referring to Potter as "the houseguest" with added emphasis, showed that Blaise had also been sharing his opinion of Potter's intentions. Thankfully Draco was able to find an innuendo-free zone next to Cousin Eloisa, who was a seventy-year-old spinster and had never heard of Harry Potter. Draco graciously allowed her to tell him about her research into the Nott letters (apparently her great great grandfather Giacomo had accompanied Aloysius Malfoy on his trip, only to be distracted by the choir boys at Falmouth in the last minute, thus saving his life).

It was only after the second course had been served that Draco felt inclined to bend an ear towards the other side of the table, where Pansy had been giving Potter speculative looks all evening.

"So, Potter."

"Yeah, Parkinson?"

There was no sign that Pansy was in any way discomposed by Potter's rude tone. Draco noticed, and then wished he hadn't, how calmly her bosom was welling above her corset.

"How are you finding life at the Malfoy Manor? I hope Draco has been a gracious host?"

Draco tried to look as if he was supremely intrigued by the asparagus on his plate and in no way eavesdropping on the conversation, but Potter's knowing glance (and since when had ignorance ceased to be Potter's predominant facial expression?) suggested that he wasn't terribly successful.

"He's been fine, and of course, Narcissa has been a wonderful hostess."

"Has Draco shown you his riding crop yet?"

Pansy made a complicated hand gesture that was probably intended to signal what she wanted to do with said riding crop. Despite feeling slightly ill himself, Draco was impressed by Pansy's ability to turn Potter's smirk into a furious blush.

"Um."

Pansy seemed quite pleased with her talents herself.

"You're there to work then?"

"Yes."

"Not so that you can come out in society?"

"Er, no."

"Participate in the season with one of the leading families?"

"No."

"Spend more time with Draco?"

A most unpleasant sensation jolted Draco's stomach.

"No."

"Why not? Don't you think he's charming?"

"Er."

"Not good enough for Harry Potter?"

"Er."

"Or do you have something against blonds?"

"Actually, I think he's a fine young man. But I'm staying at Malfoy Manor for work. And anyway, I thought he was involved with Zabini."

"Pssh. Draco and Blaise may fuck around with each other when there's nothing better going on but they're not together in any sense of the word. Unless you happen to catch them at it during an otherwise dull party while they're still joined by the appropriate organs, as I once had the good fortune to do…"

This was no time for Potter to stop blushing and start looking like he was about to lick his lips in anticipation instead. Draco was compelled to cut his asparagus into tiny pieces in order to avoid listening to Potter's voice.

"Oh. Really?"

"Oh yes. Poor Draco had spilled his ink all over the desk and Blaise was having a fit over some ruined grimoire, but of course, he was still inside Draco at that point so…"

Perhaps this would be a good moment to join the conversation.

"Ahem."

Both Pansy and Potter turned to face him, wearing rather disturbing grins.

"Draco, darling, Harry was just telling me how much he loves living so closely closeted with you. You must be so pleased to have him."

After a few blinks of unfeigned astonishment, Draco replied in a flat tone.

"It has ever been my goal to please Potter."

Instead of blushing or scowling like a normal person, Potter gave another of his coy smiles.

"I'm so glad you feel that way, Draco."

Something was very much wrong in the world.

"I don't recall giving you permission to use my first name."

"Draco, don't shout, you'll wake Mother."

"Well, I just thought that since we've been living so intimately together…"

"We have not been living together, intimately or otherwise, and it's only been one day! There's not need to be so familiar!"

"Draco, you're pouting again."

After hearing Potter mumble something about how fetching he looked when he pouted, Draco was quite ready to be dragged away by Blaise to inspect the library (Apparently it was suddenly essential that they examine the Parkinson's collection of eighteenth-century epistolary novels) with the help of some white port wine. It was only after Blaise had calmed him down by reading out selected pieces of _Sir Charles Grandison _that Draco felt capable of returning to the dining room to thank their hostess and step unobtrusively on Pansy's foot.

Potter was still smirking by the time they got home, and Draco went to bed thinking of riding crops and their proper use in chastising peasantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sermon is from Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, _The Accomplished Gentleman: or, principles of politeness, and of knowing the world: containing every instruction to complete the gentleman and…_(Dublin: Wogan, Bean and Pike, 1782)
> 
> The reference to bliss and youth is from William Wordsworth, "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven!" _The Prelude, Book XI_


	3. Part Three

Two days later, Draco came to the conclusion that hiding from Potter had lost its appeal. Blaise had refused to leave the library to share his exile (or to sulk in Draco's room like a sullen schoolboy, as Blaise put it), and Narcissa kept sending him amused accounts of Potter's conversation, as if that wasn't precisely the thing Draco had hoped to avoid. Also, there was something undignified in being forced to skulk about one's own house, instead of strutting along with unabashed feet and manly confidence like his father before him. Not that Draco wanted to remind himself of his father, but there were times when the memory of Lucius's firm steps and the bold sound of his cane hitting the floor were appreciated.

His arrival at the breakfast table was welcomed with a barely raised eyebrow from Blaise and a serene smile from his mother, who passed him the morning paper. Draco settled in his seat, gave Potter a half a scowl, and glanced at the headlines.

And promptly wished he was still in hiding.

_A LEAGUE OF INCEST OR SOMETHING WORSE?_

Rumours abound as the Malfoy ménage-à-trois is joined by none other than Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and the Saviour of the Wizarding World. After our exposé of last Monday detailing the depraved sexual habits of Blaise Zabini and his incestuous affairs with both Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, The Daily Prophet is shocked to discover that this nest of debauchery has been penetrated by Potter, who has moved to Malfoy Manor and is said to be a "particular friend" of both young Malfoy and his mother. A source close to the family has spoken of jealous quarrels with Zabini, who feels his position among the Malfoys to be under threat, and of drunken orgies, lasting all night and involving unspeakable Muggle artefacts (See our account of Tiberius Malfoy's collection on p. 18), between all four.

But that is not all! Following Harry Potter's recent promotion to Head of Dark Artefacts Office, we fear that the seduction of Dark Arts might be too strong for this young Auror. Malfoy Manor is widely known to be brimming with illegal magical objects, which frequent raids by the Ministry of Magic have failed to remove (See our featured story on Corruption in the Workplace, and How To Detect It, p. 24). Can our hero resist the lure of Dark Magic as well as the enticement of lascivious Slytherins? Our Intrepid Reporter, writing from an undisclosed location in Wiltshire, will keep you informed.

Draco turned to his mother and smirked.

"Congratulations, Mother. I see you've been credited with yet another conquest. I hope your friends will be appropriately jealous."

Narcissa's smile showed only a slight hint of smugness.

"Don't be catty, darling. I'm sure your friends are equally jealous. Not every man can claim to have seduced Harry Potter."

At this juncture, Potter decided to respond with his favourite noise.

"Um."

Draco didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes. He opened his mouth to indulge in some appropriate mocking, but was caught by Blaise's dulcet tones as well as a warm thigh sliding smoothly next to his. Blaise's ability to distract and befuddle was usually enjoyable (if embarrassing), but Draco would have to have a word with him about disrupting his Potter-baiting.

"I'm afraid I must object to that, Narcissa. Surely the credit here is given to me for seducing both Potter and Draco."

Or he could just step on Blaise's toes. Hard. Instant gratification was always fun, even though Blaise refused to show any signs of discomfort beyond the ever-present raised eyebrow.

It wouldn't do to lose sight of the main object, though.

"Don't encroach, Blaise. I'm sure there's enough of Potter for us to share."

"Um."

Taking quiet joy in Potter's increasingly desperate noises, Draco continued:

"In any case, you can certainly not claim the credit of seducing me. As I recall it was the other way round."

"And that's what I've wanted you to think."

Draco refused to allow the slight widening of Blaise's smirk to infuriate him.

"Er."

No doubt tired of Potter's signs of confusion, Narcissa passed him the newspaper. Potter frowned as he read, but soon his eyes went wide and there was some delightful biting of lips and blushing. Draco watched avidly until he noticed Blaise watching him equally avidly and scowled.

"Um. How are they…who is this source close to the Malfoys?"

"A figment of Rita Skeeter's imagination, I would imagine," Narcissa said.

"I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of inaccurate reporting, Potter." Draco added. "Although I doubt you've been portrayed in such illustrious company before."

Narcissa gave him a look representing the mental equivalent of a kick in the shin, then turned to smile at Potter.

"Actually, Harry, I wouldn't worry about it. They produce these scandalous accounts every few months and nobody believes them. It's a sort of a family tradition. Who was it, Draco, who was accused of a similar thing?"

"Great great great great uncle George?"

"Something like that, yes."

Potter was still frowning. Draco took a gleeful bite of his croissant and smirked. Sadly, Potter didn't notice, but continued to speak.

"Still, some people will believe anything about me. I'm surprised there's been no howlers yet."

Draco shared a look with Narcissa and Blaise, incredulous at the idea of allowing Howlers in Malfoy Manor.

"We have a house-elf who shoots down all owls carrying Howlers that approach the house. Midgy, isn't it, Mother?"

"Pidgy, I think. The one with the unfortunate limp, you know, whom we caught in the Olive Room with that broken coffee table?"

"Oh yes." Draco shuddered. "I remember why he was assigned outside the house, now."

There was a disturbed gulp from Potter's side of the table, and Draco asked himself why he had stayed away when inspiring Potter to make strange noises was so much fun.

Unfortunately, his mother didn't seem to feel the same way. Something about hospitality and manners befitting a Malfoy, if he recalled correctly. Draco hid a yawn as Narcissa continued pretending to find interest in Potter's words.

"Anyway, Harry, how is your work going? You've gone through most of the public rooms now, haven't you?"

Potter stopped frowning at the paper and attempted a pleasant smile. Draco shivered in disgust at so much earnestness.

"Yeah, that's right. I was actually hoping to get started on the dungeons today."

"Oh? You should ask Draco to show you around first. It can be quite dangerous down there, and you'll need to beware of the housemaid traps."

"Housemaid traps?"

"From before we started employing house-elves. There was a cousin, wasn't there, who liked to go housemaid hunting and set up a whole series of traps to catch them. I was never quite sure what he did with them afterwards, though. They usually showed up for work a few days later."

"Is that Justinius Malfoy? Famous for brewing the _Subite Libens_ potion?"

"That's the one. I didn't realise he was known outside the family, Blaise."

"Only among specialists."

The smirk on Blaise's face had achieved a new level of unsettling intimations, and Draco decided to break up the conversation before his mother made the mistake of asking what kind of specialists.

"So, Potter, dungeons?"

"Yeah, I mean yes, please. Lead the way."

There was something desperate in the way Potter scrambled off his chair and wiped his mouth on his napkin. Clearly a few days of exposure to Blaise had taught him to be wary.

"Um, will there be whips? In the dungeons, I mean?"

Or, considering Potter's hopeful tone, perhaps not.

: :

"And then, after Ron died, I was kind of useless for a few months, you know, couldn't make any plans and tried to get myself killed in battle. Then one day Remus sat me down and gave me a whole lecture about loss and sacrifice and how you still have to struggle on, and how even though it's unfair the whole of the war kind of rested on my shoulders, and so I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started paying attention again. And then…"

Draco wasn't sure how it had happened. He had asked one innocent question about Potter's previous experience with Distillation and Distribution spells (and that only to avoid further enquiry about the eternal dampness of the Scholar's Laboratorium; Draco felt no need to explain why his parents had chosen to replicate the conditions of Slytherin dungeons, replete with a swirling image of Professor Snape, for his summer course work), and Potter had taken this as a reason to tell Draco all about his time during the war. And how he had felt about it. And what he felt about it now, and really, where was a housemaid trap when you needed one? Draco tried surreptitiously to push Potter towards the eastern section of the labyrinth, where there was at least a missing stair if nothing else.

But Potter didn't even stumble, regardless of how many times Draco accidentally bumped into him, and suddenly he had had enough.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Potter, shut up! Why are you telling me this?"

The brief look of disappointment on Potter's face was not nearly enough compensation for an hour-long monologue on the internal politics of the Order of the Phoenix. The sight of Potter lying dead and bleeding at the bottom of the stairs would not be enough. Draco told himself to stop gritting his teeth.

"Well, I…I thought you'd like to know."

Potter's eyes were wide and there was a definite tilt, leaning towards a pout, on his lower lip. As if he were sincerely hurt from Draco's refusal to play best friends with him, and not even trying to hide it.

It was fortunate that Draco had developed a strict code of conduct for when Potter behaved in an inappropriate manner and tried to talk about his feelings, as he increasingly tended to do these days. That his plan included crushing said feelings was only a nice bonus.

"Why, in the name of Salazar Slytherin's wrinkled toenails, would you think that?"

Perhaps the last syllable shouldn't have resembled a distraught shriek quite that much. Draco blamed the acoustics.

And scowled, when he saw Potter's blank face turning into yet another coy smile.

"I just thought that since we are living together now you'd like to know a bit more about me. School was a long time ago, Draco. Isn't it time we got to know each other as adults?"

This was why he had hidden in his room for two days, Draco remembered. Potter drove him to grinding his teeth, and the following headaches were incurable even by Blaise's blowjobs. Not to mention that this insinuating tone, which Potter seemed to adopt every time they were alone together, was highly disconcerting.

As was the fact that Potter had suddenly moved a lot closer.

"Is that your riding crop?"

His voice was almost breathless, and Draco had to close his eyes and concentrate hard to get rid of the image that tone conjured up: Potter, naked and kneeling, his eyes wide and reverent as he begged to be punished and shown his place.

Until a sudden jerk forced his eyes open because Potter's hand was sliding along Draco's hip, unerringly finding the hold of the riding crop and pulling it from its sheath.

"Potter, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I've always been curious about these things. Muggles use them, of course, but I'd never seen one in a wizarding house before I came."

Draco could feel Potter's body, not quite touching him but still too close, exuding warmth in the cold air of the dungeons. And Potter's fingers, moving along the riding crop, noting every ridge and curve of the leather, brushing against the front of Draco's robes.

"Have you ever used this?"

Such a calmly curious tone, and Draco could have answered with equal calmness if the leathery end of the whip wasn't slithering down Draco's cheek, trailing along his Adam's apple, caressing his collarbone as Potter stepped closer and Draco held his breath.

"Would you liked to?"

Potter's mouth was at his ear, the words whispered close and low and it was too much. Potter wasn't supposed to be doing this or saying such things or using Draco's own riding crop against him. Pushing away, Draco stumbled to regain his balance until he remembered the missing stair and the long, long, fall that waited him at the bottom._ Now I know what the housemaids felt _was his last coherent thought.

: :

Draco woke up with a tongue in his mouth. Someone else's tongue, obviously, although his own was being uncharacteristically hospitable, inviting the stranger in and engaging in exciting games of hide and seek. There was a nip of teeth in the corner of his mouth, and Draco knew he was going to moan out loud before the sound was crushed against the other mouth.

Then he woke up, and the pain hit.

"Ow, fuck, fuck fuck fuck, what the hell?"

There were hands flapping about, touching his cheeks and trying to help him up, and Draco didn't' have the energy to flap back at them because _ow, fuck_. His head hurt.

"You all right, Malfoy?"

Ah. And he hadn't even asked himself what would make his headache worse. Draco felt the universe owed him something for irony.

"What kind of a stupid question is that? Do I look all right? Did the sounds of gruesome pain and suffering somehow fail to convey how much not all right I am? _Are you stupid or something?_ Ow!"

"Calm down! Let me just…look, you hurt your head pretty badly. Let me just…"

"Ow! Potter!"

"Sorry, sorry. There's a big lump but no blood, so at least the skin wasn't broken. Still, we should get you back upstairs. I'm crap at healing, and you'll need more light to do it properly anyway."

"Ow! Right, let's move then. A little light please, Potter!"

Getting up wasn't as difficult as Draco had expected, once he got past the swirling nausea and the horrible, horrible pain in his head. Leaning against the wall, he took a tentative step forward. Towards the sounds of Potter's voice.

"Ow! Malfoy!"

"Oh, sorry, was that your hand? I'll try not to step on it again, but it's a bit difficult when I can't see anything!"

"Right, sorry. There you go!"

"Not that bright, you idiot! Head wound here!"

"Sorry, is that better?"

"Yes, yes, that's fine. Now let's go before you do any more damage."

Slowly, with one hand keeping hold of the wall, Draco started to move up the corridor. Potter's hands kept flailing around his back, no doubt trying to be helpful but only succeeding in being annoying. Sadly, Draco didn't have the energy to smack him.

"Me? I'm the one who saved you from falling down the stairs!"

"Yes, well, I wouldn't have needed rescuing if you hadn't been committing inappropriate acts on my person with a riding crop!"

He'd have to replace the riding crop, now. Or at least redo the charms. Perhaps there was a nice curse he could use to keep Potter from fondling it.

"Oh shut up, Malfoy. How was I supposed to know you'd bolt like a distressed maiden?"

"What are you then, the ravishing rake? Been reading too many Venetia Bimbledook's gothic mysteries?"

"Um. Your library is awfully big. Zabini recommended them."

He'd also need to have a word with Blaise about his taste in literature and why it should not be inflicted on others.

"I see. And would that explain why you were molesting me when I was unconscious?"

"I wasn't molesting you! I was doing mouth to mouth!"

"Yes, I could see that!"

"No, you don't…It's a Muggle thing, for when you're unconscious. Supposed to help you breathe."

"Muggles do that for people who've hit their heads?"

"Um. Yes."

"Crazy people. Crazy, crazy people."

"Look, I was just trying to help!"

Despite the restless flapping going on, there was something very soothing about Potter's inane nattering. Especially when his voice did that wobbly thing. Too bad the horrible, horrible pain kept Draco from enjoying it too much.

"Shut up, Potter. You're making my head hurt."

"Sorry."

Huh. Apparently Potter was trying to be considerate. But between that, and being attacked with strange tongues and the horrible, horrible pain in his head, Draco decided he'd had enough. There was big bottle of St. Emilion that he'd been saving for a special occasion, and the three hours before the dinner gong would be just enough time to do it justice.

: :

In retrospect, getting shitfaced before a dinner where Professor Snape was to be a guest was a very, very stupid thing to do. In his defence, though, (and Draco had prepared a defence �" he had no doubt he would be called upon to give it) it had been only an hour before the appointed time that Draco remembered the honour about to be bestowed on his table, and by that point it was far too late to stop drinking.

And after walking back to the breakfast room with Potter yapping at his heels, finding Blaise and his mother (still there three hours after appropriate breakfast time) engaged in yet another conversation about _Philosophy in the Boudoir_, and complaining extensively and futilely about his injury, Draco had felt the need for a comforting drink. Particularly as Narcissa had refused to coo over his head with any sort of maternal tenderness and Blaise, instead of offering a companionate blowjob, had insisted on asking impertinent questions about how the accident had taken place. After failing to find support among his friends and family, the lure of a happy bottle of red wine had been irresistible. Not that Draco had contemplated resisting in any way.

Still, the view that faced him from across the table was quite disconcerting. Draco's usually impeccable posture might have suffered slightly from the amount of alcohol he had drank in the course of the afternoon, and the resulting slouch, coupled with the imposing tilt of Professor Snape's head, had allowed Draco to observe the intricate insides of Snape's nose in far too much detail. Sadly, his mother had refused to pour him more wine to overcome the trauma.

And everybody was picking on him today.

"I mustn't forget to express my gratitude, Mr. Zabini, for taking Draco out of my hands all those years ago. It is difficult to conduct important research when there's a petulant teenager on one's sofa, whining about everything under the sky and distracting one's subordinates."

"It was my pleasure, Professor Snape. I was happy to do what I could to help with the war effort."

And Draco must have dosed off because the dry smooth voices had given away to something else, and suddenly there was a Gryffindor shouting at his table.

"What, like run away to Italy and leave everyone else to fight the war while you sit around on your arse all day, sipping cocktails and having pretty boys feed you grapes?"

Draco's eyes were closed but he knew Blaise was giving Potter a bland look, the one he used on people too stupid to deserve an explanation on how very wrong they were.

"I see you've given this a great deal of thought, Potter. What an excessive imagination you must have."

And Potter must have calmed down although Draco could still hear his voice every now and then, small and low and full of things he wasn't going to tell them about. _Potter still knows we are the enemy_, and the thought made him happy somehow. Then there was his mother, polite and cool and almost hiding the grave importance of the question.

"Whatever happened to that man Pettigrew? I don't believe he was ever found, was he?"

"I killed him."

Potter again, so very cold and deadly, not a schoolboy anymore, both adults now, aren't we, Draco?

"That was very good of you, Harry. He was a most distasteful little man."

_There were hands all around him, sweaty soft hands that wouldn't stop moving, that kept getting into secret places under his clothes and he tried to get them off, to get away and he knew he shouldn't be touched like that, not by someone like that, but the man was everywhere and he had a thousand hands and Draco was so very tired…_

Then Snape's harsh voice and the world spinning round him, and Draco knew he had been sick and someone had shouted at him, and then there was Blaise and sunlight too bright to see in, and a smooth voice saying "I see you're not dead yet, Malfoy."

"Such a charming young gentleman. He must come and visit some time."

Blaises' voice undulating, slow and lovely and occasionally precise, full of delight in itself and the world. Then a jarring word, and Draco knew he had to wake up again.

"…sure he would be happy to come, Beppo has always liked England. He still speaks fondly of your gardens, you know. And now that continental travel is safe again…"

"What are you talking about?"

They all turned to look at him, but Draco was too focused on remembering which word went where to care.

His mother smiled.

"I was just inviting Blaise's cousin Beppo to visit us next summer. You remember him, I trust? Such a pleasant young man."

Draco knew that they all knew (well, perhaps not Potter, but who cared about him anyway) how he felt about Cousin Beppo. There were still teethmarks on one of the dining room chairs in the Zabini house in Florence that testified how he felt about Cousin Beppo. That this was a cunning plot to make him pay attention (and to send him into towering rage) was not in doubt.

So naturally he had to disappoint them.

"Of course. Such a charming man. Would be delightful to see him again."

The unnatural silence that followed his words wasn't as soothing as he'd hoped. Perhaps it was time for bed.

"I see. And do you promise not to bite him this time?"

Honest curiosity among the dry, amused tones. Draco smiled, with teeth, and saw a corresponding curve on Blaise's lips.

"I promise not to bite him unless he asks me to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time for me to retire. Goodnight."

Pale faces illuminated by candlelight, moving into gracious smiles or sneering frowns, and one thoughtful look. Draco nodded once and turned to leave.

: :

The mirror in his room was charmed to show his reflection in the most flattering light; candles, moonlight, or the barest flicker of sun to fit a Malfoy skin. But there were blotches of unsightly red on his cheeks and as ever, it was a garish shade of pink; why the colour of one's face could not follow a regulated code of matched skin tones and good taste Draco would never understand. Blaise used to say it made him look like he'd just been to an orgy, and looking in the mirror Draco could not disagree - flushed cheeks, lips dark and swollen from biting, mouth open and breathless.

Draco watched as slow, drunken fingers opened the buttons on his robes, as his neckcloth fell open and crumpled on his shoulders. It was a habit from when he was young, taking off all items of clothing one by one, putting them away neatly and correctly while watching himself in the mirror.

There was comfort in still knowing who he was.

He knew there should be a connection between that and what Potter seemed to want these days, but he couldn't remember what that was. Something he was supposed to think about tomorrow. Something requiring much loud invective and checking of Blaise's library to make sure his hyperbole was correct.

And taunting Potter was never a bad idea, no matter how much it made his fingernails itch.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets locked into a Sulking Room, Draco contemplates Wizarding Romances, Neville is a Gryffindor and there is inappropriate touching.

"Had a nice morning, Potter?"

To Draco's surprise (and slight disappointment) Potter didn't attempt to strangle him. He didn't even offer an injured scowl, but instead smiled serenely and passed the salad to Narcissa.

"It was interesting, sure. I'd never seen a Sulking Room before."

There was a slight clink as Narcissa abruptly put down her glass of Pinot Grigio. A moment of silence was followed by her sweet-toned query:

"Did you put Harry in the Sulking Room, dear?"

Draco shrugged and attempted to moderate his grin. He failed.

"One doesn't "put" people in the Sulking Room, Mother. You know quite well that the spell is impervious to any tempering. If, on the other hand, one happens to have a conversation in its vicinity where voices are raised and certain uncouth words are uttered…"

His mother's voice was dry.

"And naturally, you happened to have such a conversation nearby with Harry who wouldn't know to be careful with his choice of vocabulary. And for some reason, decided on a topic that might make him less than calm."

"It was purely by accident. And you know, the Room doesn't like to release its occupants until it is fully satisfied with their remorse. There was nothing I could do."

Raising her eyebrow, Narcissa turned to Harry with an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry about my son. We tried to teach him manners but some boys are just too hard to potty train properly."

Potter beamed in a way that made Draco's eyebrow start twitching.

"Oh I had noticed. There's a whole set of dirty limericks written all over the walls in the Sulking Room. Something about little Draco's new broom and a Miss Millentoff."

"Draco's governess before Hogwarts. Oh dear, I hadn't realised those were still there."

Potter gave Draco one of his coy smirks, causing Draco to twitch some more.

"You must have been a very disturbed young boy."

"Shut up, Potter."

"Draco!"

"Sorry, Mother."

Narcissa frowned at him, then turned back to Potter.

"Have you had a chance to look at the gardens yet, Harry?"

Wiping his mouth on his napkin, Potter looked at Narcissa with earnest gratitude.

"No, I…I haven't had the pleasure."

"Well then, I'd be delighted to give you a tour this afternoon. While Draco supervises the cleaning of the Sulking Room."

They both turned to look at him and smiled. Draco silently started counting to ten. In Greek.

: :

The Sulking Room had changed little in the ten years since Draco had seen it last. The pale blue and pink walls (His mother had insisted that the only room in the house where the colour pink was allowed should be the Sulking Room, in order to increase the suffering of those locked in there), the bookshelves full of Wanton Witches Wizarding romance novels, his old broken broom still lying in the corner. Draco allowed himself a congratulatory smirk when he remembered how the broom had come to break. Poor Miss Millentoff had never been the same.

"Master Draco, you is having a visitor."

"I is? I mean, ugh, never mind. Does this visitor have a name? Did it by any chance occur to you to ask him or her or it?"

The house-elf wore the sad look all the elves wore when Draco tried to be humorous, or sarcastic, or commanding.

"Yes, Master Draco. It is Neville Longbottom, coming to see Master Blaise."

"I see. Well, now."

The house-elf's (Fidgy?) face remained impassive, while Draco struggled with the myriad possibilities of making fun of Blaise with this. Sadly, no satisfactory opportunities immediately presented themselves.

"Very well. Bring him here, I'll take him to Blaise."

Fidgy (or perhaps Nidgy; they both had the same mole on their chin) bowed and disappeared.

Draco had just enough time to consider doing something while he waited for his guest. A light cough came from the doorway as Draco leaned against a desk and pretended to look at the bookshelves next to him. It was only when the discreet and embarrassed cough had turned into loud and somewhat painful-sounding racket that he turned to face Longbottom. But not before realising that the book he had been looking at was called _His Wand and Her Cauldron - The Love of a Cursebreaker's Daughter._

Draco raised his eyebrow and gave Longbottom a look of bored indifference, resigning himself to being eternally mocked by Blaise for this.

"Hullo, Draco."

Longbottom was looking revoltingly happy in the habit of most Gryffindors (excepting Granger, of course). The calm brown eyes and the earnest smooth brow were enough to annoy Draco in the best of days, but when these things were imagined in conjunction with Blaise's high cheekbones and curving lips (and Draco had been compelled to imagine that, several times and in many conjunctions), they produced a most intense dislike. And while jealousy was uncouth and Gryffindorlike, cool distaste was an eminently Slytherin trait. It was only natural, therefore, that Draco had to scowl at him.

"Longbottom. Here to see Blaise, I take it?"

"Yes."

Clearly the young man had no shame, and it was Draco's duty as a gentleman to remind him of his manners.

"In the middle of the day? Don't Gryffindors have rules about that sort of stuff - no sexual congress during daylight hours or something? I'm sure I read that somewhere."

"In _The Dragontamer and the Wandmaker's Wife - a Tale of Fire and Polishing _perhaps?"

One of Longbottom's eyebrows was raised in a way which showed he had been spending far too much time with Blaise Zabini. No doubt being immersed in endless soliloquies on the value of good literature, with occasional extracts from Orlando Furioso. Blaise was feeling Italian these days.

Draco had a long-cherished fantasy of tying Blaise down in his bed and reading Wanton Witches Wizarding Romance at him. However, there was no need to share that with Longbottom, or explain the reason why he still had these books in his possession, so instead Draco sneered.

"Unlikely, as I haven't read that book."

"Oh no? Great read. Loved the ending."

If not for the unchanging and too innocent-looking smile on Longbottom's face, not to mention the well-publicised fact of Blaise's high literary standards in his partners, Draco might have believed him to be sincere. As it was, Draco decided to forgive this momentary suggestion of a Gryffindor with a sense of humour as Blaise's fault and influence (Blaise caused many others to mock him - it was an unfortunate character trait that Draco had learned to live with), and merely raised an eyebrow in response (he'd had more years to practice with Blaise as a mirror), before leading the way out.

At this time of day, Blaise could usually be found enjoying his early afternoon alcoholism with Narcissa somewhere on the grounds. Since Potter had been invited to join them in the garden, they would probably be taking a break about now, to recover from the strenuous exercise of walking around and pointing at things. Using his unerring sense of discovering shortcuts to alcoholic beverages, Draco dragged Longbottom through the Wilde and Winsome Shrubbery (thus named for its tendency to extend flirtatious vines along every ankle that walked by), and brought them to the northern edge of lawn mostly unmolested.

Longbottom's robes might have been slightly torn, and there might have been a few red welts on his calves from some of the more excitable vines, but he wasn't complaining, which Draco counted in his favour. Potter would have been whining about illegal plants by now, and no doubt lifting his robes to show his legs to all and sundry. At least Longbottom had some modesty, and didn't insist on exposing parts of his body at the smallest excuse, like Potter did every time there was a heat wave, or when he'd accidentally spilled tea over his robes, or when he felt the need to investigate some corner of the dungeons that would get his clothes dirty. Draco was always being called upon to remind him that summer did in fact arrive every year and that as wizards they had option of cooling charms, as well as cleaning charms for both tea-spilling and imaginary dust (as if the house-elves would allow the dungeons to remain unclean).

He could almost see the attraction (not that he'd ever admit it) of shagging someone who wasn't consistently and intentionally annoying. Then again, perhaps Longbottom annoyed Blaise in private.

On the other side of the lawn the graceful shapes of Blaise and Narcissa, along with the twitchy shape of Potter, could be seen under awning at the Nymph's Flight Temple (One of the eighteenth-century Malfoys had been overcome with neo-Grecian urges, and there were several architectural reminders of his folly in the Manor's garden. Fortunately, most Malfoys since then had chosen to direct their Greek desires towards more human, not to mention willing, prey.) Tea was about to be served, and with tea, Draco reminded himself, there would be wine. And scones. And chances to observe Blaise with Longbottom, and thus gather material for further mockery.

And oh, what mocking there would be. Draco bounced on his toes and smirked, as Blaise caught sight of them and became strangely still.

"Hello, Blaise."

Longbottom smiled like all was right in the world. Usually, the sight of such ridiculously happy people inspired Blaise to make many pointed comments about the development of their intelligence, their personal grooming, and the breeding habits of their ancestors in conjunction with some livestock. However, this particular inane grin only caused a slight twitch in Blaise's left eyebrow, and a curving of the mouth that might indicate pleasure.

Draco scowled.

"Neville. How nice of you to drop by. Have you met Narcissa Malfoy? Narcissa, of course, is my gracious hostess, as well as a very dear friend."

And clearly his mother had lost all sight of propriety, since she thought fit to add to the already excessive amount of smiles in the vicinity, and extended her hand to Longbottom, who blushed. Draco recalled Blaise saying something about the extent of that blush, and decided to distract himself from that thought by kicking grass at Potter's shoes. Potter frowned at first, then winked at Draco. Draco scowled some more.

"Neville Longbottom, isn't it? Blaise has told us so much about you. Would you care to join us for tea?"

Somewhat mollified by the fact that Longbottom was visibly discomposed by the idea of Blaise talking about him, Draco decided to ignore the rest of the small talk and find a seat close to the food. The table was set for Summer High Tea, which consisted of three varieties of iced tea (Japanese Green, Embittered Mango and Muggle Peach), cucumber sandwiches (as a nod to the Moncrieff tradition) and fresh scones with jam. Since Blaise's arrival they had also included sweet Malaga wine, to accompany the salted almonds he always brought.

Which, if Draco's memory served, were most appropriate for certain kinds of activities.

"I hope you are fully stocked in almonds, Blaise. I'm sure Longbottom here would love to experience your particular talents in hand feeding."

Well, perhaps that wasn't the most subtle of attempts, but Draco had long ago given up on behaving well with family or Gryffindors. As it was, his mother was rolling her eyes, Blaise raised an eyebrow, and Longbottom grew quietly purple. Potter, unsurprisingly, was chocking on his scone.

Blaise's drawl was suitably bored. "Really, Draco, you know how I feel about licking in public places. But if you're feeling neglected, I'm sure Potter would be happy to give you a hand."

As Blaise had timed his comment to match Potter's first sip of tea (Embittered Mango, which made whining noises in his glass), there was now a satisfying spill of tea all over Potter's robes. Although Draco should disapprove of Blaise's unfortunate habit to encourage Potter's exhibitionist tendencies; it was difficult to concentrate on one's food when there were flashes of naked Potter around.

Narcissa seemed to agree.

"Blaise, I expected better of you. And don't you have your own guest to play with? You know how Draco gets when someone tries to steal his toys."

It was rare for his mother to show any disapproval with Blaise. However, there was a sultry undertone in her voice that suggested she wasn't entirely displeased, and that any chastisement that might follow would result in some enjoyment for both.

Draco had frequently been told that he was a very disturbed boy, but there were certain trails of thought even he preferred not to follow. Luckily, Blaise was picking up the gauntlet of competitive Gryffindor-baiting.

"Forgive me, Narcissa, you're right, of course. Although Draco seems happy to share this one."

Ignoring the slur on his character (and giving Blaise a malevolent scowl), Draco prepared to join in on his favourite sport. Mocking Potter was always a rewarding experience, and one that the whole family could enjoy. Particularly since Potter these days seemed to consist of one part amateur rake and two parts maiden aunt, sometimes attempting to look suave, sometimes blushing and stammering. It was entertaining to watch, when it wasn't disturbing.

At the moment, Potter was eyeing the table suspiciously, not daring to pick up another piece of food in case it was scandalised out of him. Draco decided to wait until Potter grew hungry before saying more about sharing.

Unfortunately, Narcissa seemed to enjoy making fun of Draco more than torturing Potter. This was Blaise's influence, Draco felt.

"True, he gets tired of them easily. But I would still poke carefully, if I were you. He might not appreciate his toys, but he won't like anyone else touching them. His father was the same, you know. There was one time when Severus…"

"This tea is lovely."

Two blond heads and one dark one turned to stare down Longbottom's attempt at polite conversation. Longbottom hastily stuffed his mouth with a cucumber sandwich.

"Do you remember that time, Draco darling, when you kept breaking your brooms and Lucius hexed one of them to chase you throughout the Manor?"

Potter made a gurgling noise and Blaise laughed openly.

"Draco was chased by brooms? That explains so much."

"Well, I do believe Lucius regretted it later. Running was a skill he didn't approve of."

"Yet so useful in later life. Draco seemed very keen on running when he came to Italy. I had to tie him down, don't you know, to keep him from taking off all the time."

"Really? How very strange."

There was regret mixed with affection in the look his mother gave him, and Draco had to turn away and occupy his hands by opening the wine bottle. Blaise, in an uncharacteristic move which Draco wished he could blame on Longbottom (and therefore use for further mocking), didn't share further memories of Draco's nightmares in Italy, but instead pulled a small bag from his pocket and handed it over to Draco.

"There you go. Especially salted for you, as I know you like them savoury."

Draco nodded, but didn't look up from the bottle. It was trying to defy him with its tightly attached plastic covering, but Draco had considerable skill and experience, and no wine bottle had defeated him yet.

: :

After tea, Blaise had dragged Longbottom to some secluded corner of the garden, no doubt to do unspeakable things to him in broad daylight. Narcissa had remembered an afternoon appointment (with a creditable performance of regret and haste - Potter had been convinced) and had delegated the rest of Potter's garden tour to Draco with an underhanded smirk.

Which Draco saw as a suitable excuse to go and spy on Blaise and his little friend. Potter's protests were ignored (since he was clearly faking them, but also because he was Potter), and within fifteen minutes they found themselves under a felicitously placed shrubbery, which had a perfect view of their quarry. Blaise and Longbottom were currently standing by Leander's Fountain, where the shimmering shape of a slim youth was seen playing in the water, while a massive statue of Neptune tried to seize hold of any shapely limb.

There were corresponding efforts of unseemly grabbiness going on with the human entertainment. Draco barely kept from applauding when Blaise evaded Longbottom's attempt to take hold of his hand for the third time. And augmented the Eavesdropping charm.

"There is no need for public displays of affection," Blaise scowled. He was standing very still, a precise six inches away from Longbottom, his hands behind his back.

Longbottom shrugged, a small frown on his face.

"This is hardly public."

"I've no doubt Draco is spying on us from somewhere."

Potter raised his eyebrow at that, but Draco ignored him, much as he had ignored the poking on his side and Potter's attempts to distract him from the spectacle by whispering in Draco's ear.

"So what? Let him see."

Longbottom sounded terribly earnest. It was nauseating.

"I'd rather he didn't."

"Why not? Are you ashamed of me?"

"Hardly. I make a point of not being ashamed of anything I do."

Draco smiled fondly. This was a line Blaise liked to repeat, especially while doing something depraved. Which added a whole new dimension to the hand holding thing.

"Why then?"

Tilting his head, Blaise gave Longbottom a measured look. Draco knew from experience that there was nothing calm about what he was going to say.

"I dislike the idea of it. There's something dreadfully common about making a public performance of affection. As if one needs to advertise one's affairs. Make a show of blindly following the most foolish of cultural customs, as if they weren't completely meaningless."

Although Longbottom's smile was fading, his voice didn't waver.

"That's not why I do it. And you're being particularly insulting today. With alliteration, even. You wouldn't try to get rid of me that way, would you, Blaise?"

Clever Longbottom. Draco tried to get a better look at Blaise's face to gauge his reaction, but his back was turned - his spine straight, his hands now in his pockets, his chin lifted. Draco gave Longbottom reluctant credit for not flinching.

"Don't be stupid. If I decide to get rid of you, you'll know it."

The smile on Longbottom's face wasn't relieved, but he clearly thought the worst was over, and reached for Blaise's hand. Draco looked with dread at what would happen.

Blaise turned away and spoke low. "Don't."

Letting his hands fall, Longbottom stepped closer and frowned. There was a pained stillness on Blaise's face, and Draco realised with a shock that Longbottom knew how to read it as well as he did.

"Why, Blaise?"

"Why do you _want _to do that?"

It had been years since Draco had managed to make Blaise raise his voice. Longbottom didn't seem surprised, though; he just looked at Blaise, calm and thoughtful.

"I like your hands. And I like touching you."

There was a long silence, and then Blaise twisted his face in a rueful smirk.

"You like too many things."

A brief but wide smile appeared on Longbottom's face, before badly faked nonchalance took its place. Blaise didn't seem fooled, but he also didn't move away as Longbottom brushed a hand from his shoulder to his elbow. After a moment, they both turned to walk back to the house.

The spectacle over, Draco wriggled out of the shrubbery with as much dignity as possible. His long experience of spying in various Manor locations allowed him to finish his cleaning charms long before Potter had finished brushing dirt from his robes.

At that point, Potter's strange urge to share his opinions with Draco reasserted itself, and he spoke. "He wasn't very nice to Neville."

People who thought that people should be 'nice' to each other were so tedious. Blaise seemed to find some entertainment in playing with them, but Draco had never had the patience. Better to crush them like bugs, Draco thought, and smiled happily at the thought of crushing Potter.

"Blaise? I'd say he's holding up well under a devastating onslaught of Gryffindorness."

Potter rubbed his forehead with his hand and tried to push his hair back. The hair resisted.

"Is that his problem then? He doesn't seem to mind us that much. Not as much as you, anyway."

Rolling his eyes, Draco started to walk back towards the Manor. Potter followed, and from the corner of his eye Draco could see that he'd picked up a piece of grass and was chewing on it. The peasant. He was probably growing freckles as they walked.

Fortunately, Draco was always pleased to educate those less knowledgeable than himself.

"It's nothing so simple as minding them, Potter. Toleration for good manners' sake is one thing, but there are cultural differences involved that you can't appreciate. Your kind is not supposed to understand our kind."

Potter made a dubious noise.

"But Slytherins understand Gryffindors?"

Draco shrugged and smirked.

"Well, it's not like it's hard. Heedlessly running in the face of danger and never growing enough brains to doubt your direction. Or your entitlement."

Potter was shaking his head, but he didn't look insulted. Instead, there was that coy look again, the one that was usually followed by some attempted nudity or crude flirtation. Draco increased the distance between them slightly.

Then Potter stopped walking, and turned to grin at Draco.

"You're right. I'll never understand Slytherins. You, on the other hand…"

"What?"

Having been forced to stop as well, Draco took advantage of the situation and posed dramatically with his hands on his hips. Potter seemed impressed.

"You're not terribly subtle, Draco. You don't bother hiding it when you hate something."

Or perhaps not. Draco tilted his head, and scowled.

"Is that supposed to be a Gryffindor compliment?"

"Nah. Just makes you easier to read."

Now Potter was openly smirking at him, and he also seemed to be standing a lot closer. Draco swallowed, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to unleash an attack of sarcasm.

"Really. In that case I should inform you, _on the off chance _that you're misinterpreting things, that my current posture of folded arms and haughty sneer means do not come any closer."

Grinning, Potter bumped his shoulder again Draco's.

"Yeah? You sure it doesn't mean come closer and make me unfold?"

Draco hadn't been unfolded since that time with the leather paddle and Blaise's four poster bed in Florence, and there was certainly no need to repeat the experience with Potter.

"Quite sure."

"Hmm."

Suddenly there were hands grabbing his arms and Draco found himself pushed against a tree, Potter's body pressed against his and Potter's intense stare an inch from his face. He could smell the savoury almonds on Potter's breath, and it took all his will power to keep from licking his lips.

"Potter!"

Potter smiled again, in a slightly deranged sort of way, and licked his lips. Draco shuddered and tried to turn his face away, but Potter was getting in the way, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Draco's neck.

"You've got yourself into a spot of trouble here. See, with your arms crossed like that, you can't reach your wand or push me away. If I take hold of your hands like this," Potter paused to squeeze, and strengthen his hold of Draco's wrists, " you can't really move. Or stop me."

The annoying twerp might be right, but that was no reason to stop struggling, even if Draco's continued wriggling had allowed Potter to slide his hips between Draco's legs. Draco considered biting Potter's ear in retaliation, but decided he would just take as encouragement, the pervert.

There appeared to be few things Potter wouldn't take as encouragement.

"Potter, cease this inappropriate touching immediately! I'll report this to your superiors. This is harassment!"

"But, as you keep reminding me, I'm the great Harry Potter. Do you think they would take your word over mine?"

There was a warm mouth nuzzling his ear. Draco shivered, and Potter nuzzled his way to kissing Draco's chin. His mouth was warm and wet, and Draco was finding it difficult to speak instead of yelping.

"Potter, what are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Sharp teeth nipped at his jaw, and Draco felt a moment of satisfaction at correctly classifying Potter. Trust Gryffindors to confuse sex with food.

"Well, why are you doing it?"

"Because I want to?"

Potter grinned, licked Draco's lips and went back to nuzzling. Draco tried to pull away without exposing more flesh.

"What if I don't want you to?"

The mouth paused its exploration of Draco's cheek. Potter drew back to face Draco, looking serious.

"If you didn't, I'd stop. But I can feel your hard-on from here. And that's not from adrenaline."

"That's my wand, you idiot."

Potter chuckled against Draco's throat.

"I can tell the difference, thanks."

And suddenly there was a hand on his cock, and _fuck._

"Now, is that your wand or are you just happy to see me?"

"Stop touching me!"

Potter stilled.

"You want this. You want me. I've seen the way you look at me, I've seen it when you can't look away. And you shiver when I look at you."

"From disgust!"

Pulling back, Potter was starting to look as frustrated as Draco felt.

"Draco, look. There's nothing embarrassing about this. You know I fancy you too. You know I like you."

Draco took a long breath and spoke through his teeth. There was only one way to get out of this with his virtue intact. "Whether you do or not doesn't come into it. I'd like you to remove your hand now, please."

The clipped tones were reassuringly smooth, and Draco breathed out in relief as Potter stepped back.

"Just tell me why not."

"I don't want you."

Potter began to smile again. "You're lying."

"I don't like you."

"Not yet. But you haven't had a chance to get to know me properly. Why do you think I arranged for this mission?"

And really, Draco should have thought of that before. It seemed like the kind of thing Potter would do; insane, illegal, and full of righteousness, with added opportunities for sexual depravity.

"What, you lied and cheated and took advantage of your position in order to come harass me? Well, I never."

There might have been something lacking in his performance of scandalised astonishment. Oh well.

"Would it make a difference if I told you that I can make all your problems with the Ministry go away?"

Potter was looking at him with a sly smile, and Draco couldn't decide between outraged and abused or impressed at Potter's cunning.

"Why, Potter, are you blackmailing me for sex?"

Shrugging, Potter brushed a hand on Draco's shoulder. What was it with these Gryffindors and their constant touching?

"Didn't seem like the kind of thing you'd blame me for."

Considering the amount of times Draco had blackmailed Blaise into his bed and vice versa, Draco could hardly claim to be disturbed by the idea. But Potter was a whole different game.

"How little you know. And you're not doing it right, anyway."

When in doubt, sneer, Draco thought as he lifted his chin and folded his arms. In response, Potter put his hands in his pockets and bounced a little on his feet, grinning. Clearly there was something lacking with Draco's sneer.

"Oh? How do you like your sexual blackmail then? A wand to the throat? Threats to your family? Promises of unseen powers? I can do all of that, if you like."

Despite the light tone, there was something curiously calculated in Potter's look that suggested he would all that if he considered it necessary. With any other man, Draco would have been impressed.

"You know, if it wasn't for your odious honesty, you could almost pass for a Slytherin."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Don't. There's nothing more gauche than wannabe evil."

"But you don't think it's evil, do you?"

Potter was watching him with that thoughtful look of his, the one that always made Draco uncomfortable and itchy. There was something unnerving about being the object of Potter's earnest attention and Draco decided, once again, that he'd prefer not to be.

He'd managed a dozen steps by the time Potter shouted at his retreating back.

"You can't keep running away, you know!"

Which just showed how foolish Potter really was since, as their tea time conversation had shown, running away was Draco's special talent.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco consumes more alcohol, Harry is flirtatious, and Draco decides to turn the tables on him.

"How interesting," said Blaise. "Dare I ask what your answer was?"

The fencing room at Malfoy Manor was in the southern wing. Its high windows caught the most of daylight, allowing white-robed wizards and witches to leap gracefully on the demarcated fencing area like delicate pale butterflies. At the moment, the resemblance of the current occupants was more towards a honey-filled and exuberant bee, complete with constant buzzing and an over eager stinger, and a half-eaten, depressed moth. Or, respectively, Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy.

The previous day Draco had suffered a long and brutal attack of Gryffindorness from Harry Potter. This attack (unlike the one undergone by Blaise, which was also long and hard but of a nature Blaise refused to discuss) had caused him to spend the rest of the evening, most of the night and a small part of the morning in loving entanglement with an enlarged bottle of Malaga wine. Draco responded to trauma in unfortunate and predictable ways, which is why his family and friends had long since become adept in the Canaanite Charm - turning wine into water after a certain point of drunkenness had been reached - but in this particular instance the spell had been a tiny bit late, no doubt confused by the unusual size of the bottle (three normal wine bottles).

It thus followed that on this particular morning Draco was feeling somewhat unwell.

Which is undoubtedly why he had chosen to tell Blaise of his encounter of Potter, all the inappropriate touching that had taken place, and Potter's sad, ridiculous, pathetic (half-hearted) attempts at blackmail. This, in turn, had prompted Blaise's question, although his sceptical tone of voice was as of yet unaccounted for.

Draco did not, however, allow this trifling matter to ruffle his composure. He leaned his sword lightly in front of him, ignoring Blaise's frustrated swipes at air, and spoke in a haughty and indignant drawl.

"Well, naturally I told him to remove his hands from my breeches."

"Naturally."

Blaise had ceased swishing his sword, and had started to swirl it in his fingers instead. Draco resisted the urge to call him on his bragging.

"Yes. Quite."

Blaise paused, and quirked an eyebrow at him. It made Draco's head hurt.

"You say that as if allowing him to think he was taking advantage of you while you were in fact taking advantage of him was something inconceivable."

It was too early in the morning and Draco was far too hangover to even think about this. He yawned without bothering to cover his mouth.

"There's the fact that he's Potter. That makes it rather unthinkable, really."

"Ooh, are you going to pretend that you haven't been thinking about it? Because I'll just not believe you."

Draco scowled. Blaise was always difficult about such things.

Slowly shifting his stance, Draco moved back on his feet and let the sword hang loose from his fingers. Then, after a moment of careless slouching to deflect attention, he attacked, jumping forward, his grip firm on the handle and his robes billowing

And suddenly found himself on the floor, clutching his left wrist and cursing loudly at Blaise's unnatural reflexes. It appeared that overindulgence of sweet wine was more perilous to his dexterity than he had imagined possible. Also, his head now hurt more.

Blaise's curious eyes peered at him from above.

"Would you really rather cut off your own arm than consider the idea that you might have thought of shagging Potter?"

Draco closed his eyes. Surely the answer to that was obvious.

: :

"How did you cut yourself?"

Potter had taken to accosting him after dinner. Sometimes in the library, where Draco was hiding from his mother's after-dinner flirtation with Blaise, or in the music room, where Draco liked to pretend to know how to play the piano. There were many places to hide in the manor, and Potter had no shame about stalking Draco through them all despite Draco's many and loud complaints. Blaise, instead of offering to protect Draco's virtue, had laughed and laughed and given Potter advice on where Draco could be found. It was most unfair.

Sadly, Draco's sulking seemed to have no effect. And now Potter was ill bred enough to follow Draco to his room, had waited outside the door for him, only to ask more impertinent questions.

"Fencing with Blaise. It's just a nick, and who gave you permission to look at my wrists, anyway?"

It had been a vexing day, and Draco was not in the mood to be ogled by Potter.

"I like your wrists."

"Potter, you seem to have this strange idea that if you like something, that somehow makes you entitled to them. I appreciate that this is something you get taught in Gryffindor, but I can assure that in the rest of the world, it doesn't actually work that way. Even for you."

Potter looked at him, thoughtfully, like Draco was a new and yet untested Quidditch broom, which demanded careful attention. Draco hated that look. He pulled his sleeves down to try to cover his wrists.

"I didn't say I wanted to own them. I just…notice them a lot."

"That's because you're a stalker."

"Or maybe because I fancy you."

"Have you noticed how most people who fancy someone don't follow them around all the time and comment on their bodily status?"

"Why didn't you heal it?"

Sighing, Draco contemplated banging his head against the doorframe. Then he contemplated banging Potter's head against the doorframe. A much more satisfying scenario.

"Because I didn't feel like it. Now, if you don't mind…"

"Actually…"

Potter's hand was on Draco's arm and he'd moved closer, in one of those stealthy moves that made Draco twitch with annoyance.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"What is it? Have you found yet another curse that requires naked casting in the pantry? Or a Dark book that can only be read whilst wearing a loincloth and covered in olive oil from the family grove?"

There was a snickering noise against Draco's shoulder.

"No. It's about the mission…look, do you mind if I come in? Don't really want to talk about this in the hallway."

Draco peered at Potter suspiciously, but couldn't find any lascivious intent on his face.

"Fine. But no inappropriate touching."

At that, Potter smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

: :

Stepping inside, Draco moved quickly to the other side of the room and turned to face Potter. It wouldn't do to give him any advantage, or let him come closer. Draco still had a bruise on his hip from the last time.

However, Potter seemed content to stay by the door, watching him. Draco considered scowling, as it was the thing to do, but he was too tired to bother. It had been a long day of sulking and hiding.

"So, what is it?"

"I haven't found any Dark artefacts."

"That would be because we don't have any. This is hardly news to me."

Potter smiled as if he had seen something endearing. Draco felt a tension headache start behind his eyes, no doubt caused by the grinding of his teeth.

"Probably not, but I wanted to let you know that I've sent the Ministry official notification of me not having found anything. I made a list of all the rooms and all the items that were included in them, and had Neville witness it when he was here. So now all we need to do is wait for them to return it, with the usual comments. You know, suggestions of places I might have overlooked, questions I should have asked, so that they can cover their arses later."

"Are they likely to cause trouble?"

Potter made a shrugging motion, and Draco straightened his shoulders.

"Not really, or nothing I can't shake off, anyway. The only thing left for me to check is your room."

Draco blinked. There were so many things wrong with that sentence, not least the idea of _Potter! Potter! In his room! _Where he currently was, standing by the bed. Surreptitiously fondling one of the posts, the pervert. Draco refused to pay any attention to him.

"Are you implying that you have inspected my mother's room? For Dark artefacts?"

He'd managed quite an impressively violent shriek by the end of the sentence. Sadly, Potter didn't seem fazed.

"She agreed to it, and was present at the time. As was Zabini. Who also agreed for me to have a look at his room, and was also there when it happened. The only one left is you."

There was meaningful tone in Potter's voice, and Draco decided firmly not to discover what it meant.

"What, now?"

"Might as well. I mean, I'm here, and you're here…"

Potter was smirking again, and Draco was relatively certain that he was having inappropriate thoughts.

"Fine. Do what you like."

There was a twitch that might have been interpreted as a wink, had Draco been watching Potter, which he wasn't, because he was lifting his chin and turning away to show his disapproval. Even Potter's whispered "I will" couldn't make him look.

Leaning against the wall and inspecting his fingernails was nevertheless not enough of a distraction. When Potter began to swish his wand and give various parts of the room stern looks (using non-verbal spells, the show off, Draco decided), Draco felt compelled to find out which objects in his room merited such a glare. He knew there were no Dark artefacts in the room (Even if he was that way inclined, what idiot would keep such sensitive items in their bedroom? There was a reason Rabastan Lestrange walked funny these days.), but there were a few things he'd rather Potter didn't see, like his…

Riding crop. Which was currently floating serenely above his bed, next to a purple bottle of Muggle lube that Blaise had insisted on trying out.

Potter raised his eyebrow and Draco cursed, not for the first time, the contagious aspects of Blaise Zabini's facial expressions.

"Hiding something, Draco?"

"You know, Potter, not every Hiding Charm covers a dark secret. Some things are just private."

"Your riding crop is private?"

The named item had floated obediently to Potter's outstretched hand, and Potter began to engage in his usual inappropriate fondling of inanimate objects. Draco could feel every brush of finger on his body.

"Considering your unnatural obsession with my riding crop, yes! What I do with mine should be private, and the fact that you keep bringing it up just shows what an uncivilised lout you are."

"What do you do with your riding crop, Draco? In private?"

Potter was teasing, again, and no doubt purposely winding him up. Draco was getting tired of it. And particularly, getting tired of letting Potter come out on top. As it were.

"You sure you want to know? It might despoil your Gryffindorian innocence. You know how depraved we Slytherins are."

"I don't mind, Draco. Feel free to take my innocence."

A surprised smile was struggling with faked earnestness on Potter's face. Draco allowed himself a dirty grin, the one he usually wore when Blaise was about to cover his belly with pornographic writings. Potter began to flush.

"I think about using my riding crop on recalcitrant peasants. You know, people who don't know their place and ask impertinent questions. People who deserve to be stripped and bent over my desk, then whipped with the riding crop until they beg for mercy. And then I think about fucking them with the handle until they come all over the desk. And making them lick the handle clean afterwards."

Potter had grown utterly still; his wand still hanging lightly from his fingers, his hands carefully not moving. As Draco watched, he swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing up and down, and his flushed cheeks grew darker, Slowly, almost hesitantly, Potter licked his lips. Draco smirked.

"I see. That's very imaginative."

"Oh, not really. Or did you think I've never actually done it?"

Potter closed his eyes briefly, then grinned at Draco winningly.

"You should tell me about that some time."

"I don't think so, Potter. Might give you ideas. Now, if you are finished with the inspection?"

Potter blinked but didn't stop smiling. There was even an additional curve in his already far too stretched mouth, as Draco noted with some disappointment.

"Sure, Draco, I'm done. For the moment."

With that, Potter gave him another annoyingly cheerful grin, and backed away from the room. And even though it had been a long, annoying day, Draco discovered that all of his earlier fatigue had disappeared, leaving only the slightly unpleasant feeling of fading drunkenness.

: :

 

The Greengrass ball was traditionally set at midsummer, in order to take advantage of the long daylight hours at their Scottish estate as well as a last hoo-ha before the end of school, allowing witches and wizards the chance to indulge in drunken abandon before having to pretend to be responsible parents. Draco enjoyed the opportunity to watch middle-aged women try their arts (usually the _I am a hot older woman, would you like me to teach you a few things?_-routine) on Blaise, particularly when Blaise made a point of flirting with their husbands afterwards. And with Draco's mother, of course, which gave Narcissa ascendancy in their social circles, and gave Draco indigestion.

On this particular occasion, Blaise was thankfully occupied with Longbottom in a corner by the punch, and Narcissa was discussing summer fashions with Annabella Parkinson. From what Draco could see, there was much bemoaning over the thin materials everyone was simply compelled to wear, and the horrifying ways such clothes tended to stick to the skin and reveal far too much of the wearer's curves. Annabella was all but bursting out of her low-cut dress in her horror.

Draco blinked and shook his head, trying to get rid of the image.

The ball, like so many others this year, was Regency-themed. In the Wizarding world, the Regency of George IV had mostly involved taking advantage of the worst excesses of the French Revolution (such as Portkeying large quantities of French wine through the blockade, and selling revolutionary tracts to the Muggles). It had also included emulating a variety of Muggle fashions, adapted for wizardwear. That this summer, the five year anniversary of the fall of Voldemort, coincided with the 200-year anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar was merely an excuse to flaunt one's flesh in myriad and unnatural ways. This, at least, was Draco's opinion, which he was happy to share with anyone who came into close proximity, particularly if there was any attempt to flaunt any flesh.

Speaking of unnatural obsessions with revealing one's flesh, here was Potter. Some mad creature had advised him (Draco couldn't believe that Potter would come up with this by himself) to wear Muggle clothes instead of robes, and so Potter was decked in tight breeches, those strange shiny boots that Blaise was always talking about with his eyes glazed, a fitted black jacket and a loosened neck cloth. He looked like one of those Muggles who tried to emulate great uncle George, all windswept hair and pouting lips. Except that in Potter's case it was more over brushed hedgehog and too much red wine. Draco smirked happily into his glass of rosé Shiraz, which left _his _mouth pleasantly pink.

"Having fun, Draco?"

"Sure. Who helped you dress?"

Potter squinted with slight annoyance. Draco felt happiness well inside him. Or it could be just the wine.

"What makes you think I didn't choose this myself? I can dress myself, you know."

"There is no evidence to indicate that you can, therefore, somebody else must have helped. Who was it?"

"Your Blaise, if you must know."

"My Blaise. How interesting."

Draco made a mental note to talk to Blaise about interfering once again.

"But your Blaise seems to be occupied this evening."

They both turned to look at the now suspiciously empty corner. Draco sighed melodramatically and hoped Blaise wasn't debauching Gryffindors on anything that would stain. Daphne was so peculiar about that.

"I wonder what they're doing." Potter tried to look innocent. He reminded Draco of a something Blaise had once made him watch, some Muggle show about the gay love of an American teenager and his bald friend. There was a similar look of concentrated stupidity on Potter's face.

"I'd rather you didn't. And I'd prefer it if you never mentioned Blaise's sex life in front of me again. Such topics are unseemly among civilised people."

Potter raised his eyebrow and said something about pots and cattle and spying in gardens. Fortunately, Draco could ignore him and focus on his new glass of wine instead.

"I notice you didn't bring your riding crop."

"I'd also prefer it if you didn't talk about my sex life."

"So you admit you have a riding crop kink?"

"I really don't think I'm the one with the kink, Potter. You're the one who keeps talking about it, keep trying to touch it. I'm aware that you haven't been educated in how to have a civilised conversation, but honestly, touching someone's riding crop is like touching somebody's wand. It's just not done."

Obediently, Potter moved closer and lifted a hand to trace Draco's wand where it was peeking out of his sleeve. Draco, for once, hid his smirk.

"Stop that! You're not supposed to touch somebody else's wand!"

"But I like touching yours. It's so smooth, and hard at the same time."

"Is that supposed to be a euphemism? Potter, you have the worst lines of anybody, ever."

"Are they working?"

Potter was grinning, still standing close, his hand still on Draco's wrist. His thumb was lying soft on Draco's pulse and Draco could feel it quickening, could see the resulting heat in Potter's smile. Potter wet his lips, and Draco could almost taste the wine on his mouth.

He took a deep breath and stepped back.

"No."

: :

Abandoning Potter next to a stack of wine bottles, Draco pointedly didn't look back as he made his way through the room, looking for a glimpse of sea-green silk. Blaise always came to these things dressed up as a pirate god - it was something to do with Muggle slaves and rum - and in an otherwise disturbingly pastel-coloured room, he was usually easy to find.

This time, however, it took Draco a half an hour of barging through closed doors and backing away hastily (once it had been ascertained that the couple or group engaging in depraved activities didn't include Blaise) before he found his quarry. Blaise was ensconced in a side room next to the library, staring morosely at the fireplace and sipping from an almost-empty bottle of Rioja. His robes, Draco noted, were somewhat disordered.

"Where's Longbottom?"

Blaise gave him a short glare, then turned back to the fireplace. Apparently the interlude had not been as pleasant as expected. Draco considered saying something comforting, then considered what Blaise would do to him if he tried being comforting, and settled for opening the bottle of rosé he had brought. As tokens of friendship and sympathy went, wine was always appreciated.

Blaise seemed to think so too, since he performed a cleaning charm on his glass and offered it up to Draco to be filled.

They sipped their wine, until Blaise felt the need to start mocking Draco again. Draco thought himself most virtuous for not pointing out that Blaise was only acting out on his own angst. Particularly since he did this out of friendship, and not because there would have been spilling of wine.

"So, what happened with Potter?"

"I think he's flirting with me."

Blaise began to look amused. Draco tried not to grind his teeth.

"You think? He's been doing that quite blatantly for the past few months. Surely you've realised that before now."

"I've been _ignoring _it. And him."

"Sure you have. Just like you've been not looking at him all the time. Or touching him."

"I haven't been touching him! He's been touching me!"

"But you've not moved away, have you? Even though you complain, and make a big fuss over how he's stalking you, you don't move away. I think you might be in denial, Draco. Haven't I told you how that's bad for you? Limits your bowel movements and all sorts of things."

Blaise made his I'm-a-scholar-and-know-many-things look, which always caused Draco to start twitching. He pouted theatrically in response.

"Please, please, _please_ don't start another lecture on the effects of abstinence on my intestines. The carpet in the Olive Room still hasn't recovered from the last time, and Daphne will hex us both if we damage her floor."

"Don't change the subject."

Now Blaise was scowling. Draco smiled beatifically, and watched Blaise roll his eyes

"I'm not in denial, Blaise. Actually, I was just thinking it would be a good idea to do something about Potter."

Blaise's studious frown was replaced by a raised eyebrow and an amused smile.

"Oh? And by something do you mean fuck him with your riding crop?"

Draco snorted. "Hardly. No, I want to show him that he's not going to win this game."

"Surely you should only point that out after you've won?"

"Well, quite. But I need to set the scene first. And that's why I need your help."

"You want to make him jealous with some public acts of lewdness?"

Frowning a little, Draco turned to glance at Blaise. ''No, I don't. And wouldn't Longbottom throw a fit at that, anyway?"

His friend said nothing, merely took another sip of his wine. Draco looked hastily away.

"But no, that wouldn't do. It needs to be something where he thinks he's getting his way. Something more subtle."

"And what did you have in mind?"

Blaise was smirking now, and Draco felt a similar grin tugging at his mouth.

"Wouldn't it be nice if we held a ball for Harry Potter?"


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco holds a ball in Harry's honour, wherein we encounter much consumption of alcohol, some mocking of Hufflepuffs, Hermione's twitching hand and a Blaise-shaped blob. Oh, and some riding crop sex.

"Remind me again why throwing a ball in honour of Harry Potter is a devilish plan that will end in his humiliation and your undeniable victory over lascivious Gryffindors, and not a sign of your infatuation with Potter?"

Draco kept his eyes firmly in the mirror, choosing not to show any irritation over Blaise's unsubtle attempts to annoy him. Forcing Blaise to become unsubtle was one of Draco's favourite games. Almost as much fun as frustrating Potter.

"I believe I have already explained this to you, in some detail. Surely your memory has not deteriorated to such an extent? Or have you finally succumbed to senility? You are not as young as you used to be, Blaise."

There were no sounds of grinding teeth, only the ever-present raised eyebrow, but Draco chose to believe that his jab had been successful. It was only his refusal to break his concentration from arranging his neck cloth that kept Draco from ascertaining verbal victory over Blaise.

"I am three months older than you. This does not make me senile, as I have pointed out to you before. And it is not my memory that is at fault, but rather your explanation which has not yet succeeded in making sense, despite your lengthy extrapolations on the subject."

"In that case, why would you want to hear it again?"

"Because I like to watch your facial expressions when you talk about Potter? It's that delightful combination of sexual frustration and looming temper tantrum. Most entertaining."

Draco sighed. It was not the first sigh of the day and would undoubtedly not be the last. Blaise was so trying when he wasn't getting laid.

"The famous Harry Potter is famous for disliking occasions held in his honour. He is also known to avoid mixing with high society. That the Malfoys are holding a ball for Potter, which Potter is both attending and approves of, is a coup for our family as well as a sign of Potter's further integration to Wizarding society."

"And your convincing him to do such a thing is a sign of the close, ahem, _friendship _now shared by Potter and the Malfoy family. Not to mention that Harry Potter's credentials as a virtuous Gryffindor are impeccable, and that he would not associate with the Malfoys if there were any remaining Death Eater stain on their character. Particularly after he has just finished an investigation into Dark Artefacts in the Malfoy Manor."

"Quite so. But why, if you remember this so well, do you insist on repeating it?"

Blaise smirked and poured himself another glass of the pre-ball celebratory cabernet sauvignon.

"Because you have not quite yet explained how this leads to Potter admitting your undeniable mastery of his person. Other than in the obvious way, although considering his obsession with your riding crop I wouldn't say that's the way it's going to fall."

The cut of Draco's collar allowed him to see the moment his pulse became more rapid, exposing the pale skin in a way that drew attention to the contrast between the dark green material of his robes and the delicate flesh underneath. There was a small button, in lighter green, that was almost straining to be fingered open, resting just below his adam's apple. Draco smiled at his reflection. Potter didn't stand a chance. Not when he had left himself so open to exploitation.

"I should hope that you of all people would see Potter's depraved attention for what it is, a sign of his ill-breeding and lack of control rather than any show of mastery."

"Hmm. And how did he take your plan? Has he admitted his inevitable submission yet?"

Blaise was quietly laughing at Draco as he drank his wine. Draco reminded himself that the house-elves wouldn't have the time to clean the floor if he hexed Blaise now. Better to suffer the iniquity of having unkind friends.

"Well, he was confused."

"Of course."

"Of course."

They shared a smirk.

"Then I explained to him that this would be a good way to break up old house hostilities. If we had the ball in all house colours, Ravenclaw blue mixing with Hufflepuff yellow…"

"How Swedish of you."

"Gryffindor red mixing with Slytherin green…"

"And Christmassy. Not a combination I would have chosen, but then Potter is clearly colour blind."

"His eyes started to glaze over when I mentioned the intermingling of Gryffindor and Slytherin. I don't think he paid much attention after that."

"How cunning of you. And were you, by any chance, wearing your riding crop at the time?"

"I might have been."

Draco chose this moment to practise his demure face in the mirror. It usually made Blaise snicker and his mother roll her eyes, so it was essential to be able to give a convincing performance tonight.

Blaise lifted his wine glass to hide his face. Draco took this to mean that he had not yet perfected the art of looking innocent and biddable.

"You did invite the rest of his lot?"

"If by the rest of his lot you mean Hermione and her friends, yes. Although she wasn't terribly convinced by your good will. She says she's only coming to make sure you don't do anything unseemly to Harry."

"Couldn't you convince her? And in any case, I'm fairly sure she doesn't want to see what I intend to do to Harry. Unless Granger is a lot more kinky than I thought. Although, considering what I know about other Gryffindors…"

"I wouldn't presume to comment."

Draco gave Blaise a I-Am-Unamused-By-Your-Attempt-To-Be-Funny look through the mirror, which Blaise pretended to ignore.

"But yes, all our players seem to have been brought together for the final denouement."

"Please stop talking like a supervillain-wannabe. You are not Lex Luthor, Draco. You're not even Dr. Evil."

"Who?"

"Never mind. You were saying?"

Draco thought of attempting another commanding glare, but decided not to push his luck.

"I don't want to give Potter any opportunity to speak to me in private before midnight. You need to make sure that there's always someone else around. And not just you, mind, as Potter seems to have no inhibitions about having private conversations in front of you. One of his friends. Or my mother."

"Yes, I did enjoy his description of combining the riding crop with some wand play. And not just for the look on your face, although that was rather priceless as well."

"He's shameless, isn't he?"

"You sound so proud, Draco. Enjoying the idea of corrupting the little Gryffindor, are we?"

"Hardly. Humiliating the little Gryffindor, rather. Besides, he doesn't strike me as that uncorrupted. Well, not like that, anyway."

"Indeed. Very inventive, he was. Seemed to have put a great deal of thought into it."

It would be most imprudent to remind himself of Potter's slow, teasing voice when he spoke of the things he wanted to do to Draco. Certainly not in front of Blaise, who had started to pay close attention to Draco's complexion, and mocked him in a very unkind way for regaining the ability to blush.

"So have I. And Slytherin cunning will always win over Gryffindor fantasies."

"If you say so, Draco, if you say so."

Ignoring the light sarcasm in Blaise's voice, Draco poured himself a glass of the wine and toasted himself in the mirror.

He was going to win, after all.

: :

The Malfoy Ball in honour of Harry Potter was strategically held at the close of the season. The Wizarding Season, unlike its Muggle equivalent, culminated in late July and signalled the beginning of the Magical Beasts Mating Season. It had originally been intended to mark the time when most wizards began work on containing and managing the various beasts and their effects on both Wizarding and Muggle society, but these days, with the advent of more advanced spell work and information about Muggles, it was merely an excuse to avoid one's neighbours whilst pretending to work hard. There were also some people who felt that the Magical Mating Season should extend to wizards as well as their beastly companions, but such thoughts were considered vulgar among the polite society.

However, the final ball of the season remained the grandest and most excessive, and was certainly used by the younger population as an excuse to engage in well-mannered debauchery during the party. Two hours after the beginning Draco had already noticed four of his former classmates skulking furtively away to find a semi-private nook somewhere (or in the case of Pansy Parkinson and Justin Finch-Fletchley, the corner of the central staircase next to the ballroom).

Hermione Granger, on the other hand, was not amused at the proceedings. Her high-necked robes (in bright Gryffindor red, sadly) looked like they were pinching her in the neck, but Draco was well aware that the unhappy look on her face was the result of moral disapproval, not physical discomfort. After all, he delighted in causing it as often as possible. Even though Blaise insisted on spanking him for it.

"Hello there, Granger. Enjoying the party?"

She scowled, and Draco smiled pleasantly in return. It was high time for someone else to start getting wrinkles on their face.

"Why are you doing this, Malfoy? You might not be a Death Eater anymore but you don't care about house unity. What are you up to now?"

Ever the thoughtful host, Draco poured another glass of sauvignon blanc for Granger. He held it out for her and waited patiently until good manners forced her to accept the glass. Smirking, he made sure his voice was suitably bored.

"Nice to see you too, Granger. Lovely weather we've been having."

Granger did another one of her weird eyebrow movements, probably intending to convey frustration and annoyance, but succeeding only to suggest furiously mating caterpillars. Oh yes, there were clearly wrinkles in her future, and much more unsightly ones than the thin lines (from excessive eyebrow raising, and wasn't it unfair that Blaise never seemed to get any?) on his forehead. Draco found this thought highly satisfying.

"Oh don't start, Malfoy, I did the polite greetings at the door. Why are you doing this?"

Why did Gryffindors always think that if they just asked with enough vehemence, one would feel compelled to disclose one's evil plans? Just because Voldemort had failed to read his Evil Overlord handbook didn't mean that the rest of Slytherin were equally afflicted.

Fortunately, Draco had the right answer to this question. It had taken some practice, but the look on Granger's face made pronouncing the name worth it. "I figured_ Harry _would like it."

"Harry?" It might have been the lighting, but Granger began to look slightly green. And not the delicate, tasteful green that coloured the wallpapers.

"Yes. He told me so himself."

The look on Granger's face was transformed from horrified to determined-and-virtuous. Draco rubbed his belly absently. That look always gave him indigestion.

"Look, Malfoy, I don't know what you think you're doing with Harry, but I'm not going to let you use him. He's had enough people in his life trying to ride of the Boy Who Lived bandwagon…"

"I assure you, Granger, I have no intention of riding _that_."

"And I won't let you talk him into anything. Whatever tricks you used to get him to sign off that document about not finding any Dark Artefacts…"

"You mean tricks like not keeping any Dark Artefacts in my house?"

"I'm warning you, Harry is not stupid enough to fall for that sort of stuff!"

Draco considered telling her in some detail about what his plans for Potter included, but then Blaise would probably need to spank him again and Draco was already booked for the evening. Maybe afterwards.

"Why don't you ask, ahem, _Harry_, why he signed that paper? And why he is still staying at my house? I'm sure the answers would be most educational. You could learn so many new things."

Granger's blush clashed magnificently with both her robes and her lipstick. Draco almost wished he had the opportunity to point this out to her without Blaise hearing about it.

However, he now knew that Granger had asked Potter, and that Potter had told her something. Considering the length of the blush, probably more than Granger had wanted to hear.

"You know, this could all have been avoided if you only you had told Potter more about Wizarding costumes. He wouldn't be quite so …_enthralled _by my riding crop. Or feel the need to experiment with it in such inventive ways."

Granger had the look of a woman who had heard quite enough about Potter's obsession with Draco's riding crop, and was no longer restrained by the politeness which had forced her to listen to Potter.

"Malfoy. If you harm him in any way, if you hurt him…"

"Why, what do you think we were going to do with the riding crop? Do I need to explain the pleasures of flagellation to you? It's an old Wizarding tradition, don't you know, and…"

Judging from the insane glint in Granger's eye, that might have been the drop that broke the dam. She took a step closer, put her wine glass carefully on air (the Barmaid spell, and Draco reminded himself to mock her later), and pulled her sleeves up a little. Draco lifted his chin and stood his ground.

"Hermione, Draco, is everything all right?"

It appeared that only a timely intervention by Blaise Zabini spared Draco from a reacquiantance with Granger's palm. Neither spoke, but Draco noticed that Granger's hand was still twitching.

"Right. Hermione, just ignore him, you know he's a fuckwit and doesn't know what he's talking about. Draco, please remember your station and refrain from causing a scene. Or I'll hide your riding crop and invite Potter along for a threesome."

Blaise seemed to be more than slightly peeved, and Draco felt a strange turning in his belly that might have been guilt. And it would be imprudent to have Potter catch him being nasty to his little friends, before the midnight rendezvous, at least.

"My apologies, Granger. I hope I didn't discomfit you too much."

Both Blaise and Granger gave him an incredulous look as they walked away.

So, he might have to work on his sincere look a bit more. But, as Draco reminded himself, it worked on Potter, and that's what mattered.

: :

Narcissa had had the pleasure of standing with Potter for most of the evening (as the official hostess, she was entitled to Potter's constant attendance as her escort), introducing him to people, answering awkward questions (or making questions like "what the fuck are you doing here, Harry" impossible to voice) and soothing ruffled feathers (sometimes literally, as it was the start of the Mating Season and some people had already began their experimentations). At the end of the dinner, however, she gave Potter a gracious smile, a scented kiss on his cheek which made him flush and gulp, and indicated that he was at liberty. Then she walked straight to the corner which housed, by coincidence, both the wine service and Draco.

"Where is your better half?"

His mother was showing more lines on her face than Draco had ever seen displayed in public. Considering that she had spent the last few hours not only entertaining Potter, but keeping Draco from having to entertain Potter, Draco figured that this was not the time to insist (again) on him being just friends with Blaise. He poured her a glass of cabernet sauvignon.

"Haven't seen Blaise in a while, he was talking to Granger earlier."

"Yes, I heard." Narcissa raised her eyebrows in a way that predicted the Sulking Room in Draco's future. Draco coughed and tried to look demure.

"Right. Well, I haven't seen him since…wait. Is that…?"

A Longbottom-shaped blob had appeared in the garden. It was soon joined by a Blaise-shaped one, and as Narcissa and Draco watched, the two blobs started arguing. Well, one blob began to flail its arms and the other became still and rigid and crackled with repressed fury. Or perhaps something else, but Draco preferred fury.

His mother, however, didn't seem too delighted by the prospect.

"I hope they don't break it off. That Neville is such a nice young man."

Cringing inwardly at his mother's tendency to make indiscriminate use of young men's given names, Draco contemplated the idea of Narcissa engaging in a threesome with Blaise and Longbottom. He then contemplated knocking himself unconscious with a wine-bottle in order to avoid mental scarring.

"Unlike some I could mention."

"Yes, Mother, I'm a disgrace to the Malfoys forever, not to mention the Blacks. But how can you want to see Blaise consorting with a Gryffindor?"

There was something almost gentle in the look Narcissa gave him. Draco turned to stare at his shoes to avoid any possibility of talking about one's feelings (which was unseemly and unBritish and unbefitting a Slytherin). His mother sighed tiredly and turned to face the garden.

"I believe that young master Longbottom is good for our Blaise. Inspires him to do things he otherwise wouldn't. Blaise is too young to be so set in his ways."

Draco chose not to ask for clarification on what Longbottom inspired Blaise to do, in case his mother chose to answer him. The figures in the garden had stopped floundering about and were now engaged in a solemn looking discussion, with much nodding on Longbottom's part. Blaise seemed to be mostly lifting his chin to new and undiscovered heights. Draco had an uncharitable thought about the length of his neck.

"Isn't it time for you to go and turn into a pumpkin now? Or was it a broomstick? I never did make sense of those fairy-tales. Nonsense transfiguration."

Conversing on one's carnal plans with one's mother was never a good idea, and Draco couldn't see any reason (other than the obvious one of increasing Draco's consternation) why Blaise had insisted on telling Narcissa about the whole thing. Still, she was right; it would be uncouth to be late for one's own seduction. Draco allowed himself one last gulp of wine and turned to go and find Potter.

: :

There was a careful line between being subtle enough and being too subtle. Say, in suggesting to Potter that he should follow Draco to a more private location without advertising their encounter to the rest of the audience. Well, not yet, anyway, although if a few inquisitive souls managed to figure that out, that would only help Draco's reputation after the fact.

But Potter was not a subtle man and so Draco had to lower himself to giving Potter a Significant Look, with the accompanying eyebrow movements (he had practised with Blaise and been laughed at a lot), and then turning towards the door and gracing it with another Significant Look. Thankfully, most of the Slytherin guests were too occupied with mocking the Hufflepuff musicians to pay any attention to Draco. Otherwise, his reputation would never survive.

Walking out of the ballroom, expecting Potter to follow him but not turning back to check, was not as easy as it should have been, but then that was the case with the whole thing with Potter. Draco decided to view the strange and unnerving sensations in his belly as the after-effects of an unfortunate glass of Chardonnay (Draco disapproved of Chardonnay on principle - it was only Blaise's insistence that had convinced him to include it in tonight's offerings. Apparently the Hufflepuffs liked it). He nevertheless kept his head lifted and his step steady as he walked, unhurried, up the stairs and towards the private wing. Not to his room, but to the Family Library. Where Blaise's desk (Blaise had not been consulted as to the location of the main event) was ornamented with Draco's riding crop, magical handcuffs, and a big bottle of lube.

Draco walked straight in and left the door open. This gave him enough time to turn around and arrange himself artistically over Blaise's desk before Potter's steps, slightly more hurried than his, came up the stairs. Draco took a long breath and prepared to smirk.

Potter's robes were proper Wizarding robes, almost conservative by the standards of the current youth (Who didn't know how lucky they were, in Draco's opinion. He still remembered the time when fuchsia and snot green were popular). Proper robes, made for respectable young wizards and not dissimilar to what Draco himself was wearing - Draco gave a moment's thought to who might be advising Potter on his wardrobe, since it sure as hell could not be Granger - that were just expensive enough to fit Potter closely rather than approximately. The material was smooth, but not so shiny as to attract attention, and made to be appreciated by touch rather than sight. Which said more about Potter's intentions for tonight than was perhaps necessary, at least until Draco remembered they were his intentions too. And that Potter was stepping closer.

"Drink?"

Draco wasn't sure where the liquor cabinet was but there was bound to be one somewhere. Blaise wouldn't have his reading without alcoholic accoutrements.

"I'd rather have you."

This was the problem with Gryffindors. Not only were they rubbish at playing the game, but they rarely admitted to there being such a thing as playing the game and insisted on all kinds of ridiculous lies like Truth About One's Feelings and Honest Discussions About Relationships.

"We'll see about that."

Fortunately, Draco wasn't going to tolerate any of that. And as long as he kept Potter's mouth otherwise occupied, he wouldn't have to listen to it either. Draco smiled and made sure his voice was even and low. "Come here."

Potter didn't look away as he stepped forward.

And Draco didn't wait for him to stand still. He grabbed hold of Potter's shoulders, almost as soon as he was near enough, and pulled him close, hands on Potter's face, directing him to Draco's mouth. There was a moment when Draco wondered _Is this me? Am I this greedy? _but after a while it didn't matter because Potter's mouth was equally greedy, latching on to his. No room for subtlety there but Draco didn't care, just licked his way into Potter's mouth, stroking the corner of Potter's lips with his tongue, sucking on his lower lip just enough to tease. His fingers were still framing Potter's face, thumbs stroking Potter's cheekbones, feeling his skin. Draco pulled back long enough to moan, then clutched Potter closer.

It was important not to get carried away, Draco thought as Potter started rubbing himself against Draco, chest to chest and belly to belly, thighs sliding between Draco's legs. It wouldn't do to let Potter take control, as he was no doubt trying to do with those insidious fingers slithering up Draco's back. Draco had to make a concerted effort to get hold of them, then push them behind Potter and attach them with the handcuffs.

There was a satisfying snick-noise, and Potter stopped licking Draco's jaw.

"What?"

"Not too much for you, I hope? You did want to find out what I could do with my riding crop…"

Potter blinked, then began to grin, slowly, manically, intentionally. He leaned close and pressed one soft kiss on Draco's cheek, and whispered "No" into his ear. Then he stepped back and stood there, waiting, his hands tied behind his back, shoulders taut, hips pushed forwards.

Draco swallowed.

"Right, then."

Pushing himself up from his sprawl against the desk, Draco tried to rearrange his clothes (Potter's hands worked faster than expected - he had already opened a third of the 104 buttons fastening Draco's robes) and then decided that it would be a pointless effort at this point. A certain amount of uncovering would be necessary, after all, and Potter had already done most of the hard work. Instead he gave what he hoped was a winning smile and walked around Potter, coming to stand behind his back. The handcuffs were glowing faintly, throbbing to the rhythm of Potter's pulse, and Draco couldn't resist the urge to trail a finger along the outer rim, not quite touching the skin but close enough for Potter to twitch. Smiling, he took hold of Potter's wrists, pulled the handcuffs apart with a murmured spell and swiftly moved them to Potter's front. The body in front of him remained still, only shivering a little when Draco's thumb stroked his pulse.

Then, placing his hand to the small of Potter's back, Draco pushed, slowly and steadily until Potter was bending over the desk. Draco stepped back and prepared to enjoy the view.

Potter was holding himself up with his elbows, his hands being attached too close to each other to offer any supportive help. This meant that Potter was almost horizontal on the desk, his arse propped up at just the right angle, his legs spreading to keep his balance.

"Draco?"

Oh yes, to the task at hand. Moving closer, Draco flicked his wand to remove Potter's robes, leaving him in a white shirt and black trousers, and far too schoolboy like. He placed one hand at the small of Potter's back and felt him shiver, the muscles moving under his fingers, impatient. Draco decided to do the rest of disrobing by hand.

It didn't take long to pull Potter's shirt out of his trousers. Draco tucked it up beneath Potter's armpits, whispered a _Detine_ \- spell to keep it there, and spread his hands down Potter's back. Warm skin, lightly tanned (no doubt from all the self-exposing Potter insisted on doing), smooth under his fingertips. Draco didn't move, just held his hands there, feeling the skin, and Potter moaned, shamelessly, like there was nothing more exciting he could be doing. Such an innocent touch, and it made Potter moan. Draco wasn't sure if he should be pleased or disturbed. He brushed a thumb across the vertebrae and thought about pressing his mouth there.

"Draco, please…"

Potter's low voice snapped Draco out of his reverie. Well, there went his fantasies of making Potter beg with threats and teasing and holding his cock hostage. Apparently Potter was easy, giving him all the things that should have been granted only grudgingly and after much struggling. Draco dipped an inquisitive finger under Potter's waistline and was rewarded with yet another moan, and Potter bucking hips under Draco's hand.

"Stay still, Potter. I'm going to show you my riding crop in a bit, but you need to stay still first."

"Is that a euphemism?"

Potter sounded amused and calm, as if he hadn't been whining low in his throat a few moments ago. Draco moved his hands to Potter's front and pulled his trousers down swiftly, producing a most satisfying groan as well as a mild whimper from himself when he realised that Potter was wearing no underwear.

"Potter, you pervert, why are you walking about with no underwear?"

"I figured it would be convenient. Speedy, you know."

"Hmmph. Speed is not all that matters, although I'm not surprised that a Gryffindor lout would think so."

"Maybe I just like feeling free."

There was little one could say to that, and Draco squashed his very natural urge to laugh his head off (also, felt very grateful that Potter's back was turned and that he wouldn't be able to see the intricately buttoned boxers Draco was wearing), and occupied himself with pulling Potter's trousers down to his ankles.

"Shouldn't you take my shoes off first?"

"No, this is fine. I think I'll leave you like that." Potter with his arse bare and raised in the air, trousers around his ankles, his shirt still on but lifted to leave him bare from chest down. And bent over a desk with his wrists cuffed together.

Potter seemed to appreciate the delicacy of his position as well, as he jerked under Draco's hand.

Draco smiled. "Now, where did I put my riding crop?"

A long inhalation followed. Minutes later, when Draco was stroking Potter's thighs with the end of his riding crop and listening to Potter moaning under his breath, it occurred to him that this was all going rather splendidly. Potter was a delightfully perverted as Draco had hoped, and there was every indication that he wouldn't resist the next part in Draco's plan. With a last flicker of leather between Potter's arse cheeks, and a deliciously high whimper that followed, Draco plastered himself against Potter's back, placed the riding crop on the desk with a decisive smack, and leaned close to bite Potter's earlobe.

"Enough of that, don't you think? Although I won't put this away quite yet."

Potter kept moving against him, all but rubbing his arse against Draco's still clothed cock, his mouth seeking desperately for any part of Draco's face. Draco allowed one swift kiss before running his hands down Potter's arms, and pushing his wrists apart with a spell that attached the hand cuffs to the table. His arms spread now, Potter was leaning even lower over the desk, his breathing growing faster as he realised his new position. And then: "I hope you can breathe through your nose."

There was barely time for Potter to raise his head before Draco slipped the riding crop between his teeth. "Now, remember not to bite, it won't taste pleasant."

Potter made a furious sounding _Mmmph_-noise and Draco smirked. Then he pulled back and picked up the lube from the desk.

By the time he had two fingers up Potter's arse the noises had changed to a desperate sort of whimpering. There was also a gallery of red bite marks on Potter's neck, which, if anything, had made him moan harder. Draco discovered that he really liked licking the hairline at Potter's nape, liked tugging with his teeth at the skin that wasn't really loose enough, but which made Potter push back at his fingers.

Pulling his fingers out produced another groan, but Draco was too busy trying to open his robes and trousers to stop and congratulate himself. A quick rub of lube over his cock, then one slick hand on Potter's hip, and Draco was pressing in, delibrately slow and careful, biting his lip. Potter was one tense muscle in his arms, trying to keep still, trying not to push back.

Then Draco leaned close to lick at one of the bite marks and that was it, Potter was pulling him in and suddenly they were frantic, shoving and pushing at each other, thrusting together in a jagged rhythm. He grabbed hold of Potter's hips, leaving bruises with careless fingers, and started pounding into him, pressing Potter's thighs against the desk. He could hear Potter spit out the riding crop, felt the swollen mouth on his cheek, moaning _dracodracodraco _into his ear. There was hot and sweaty skin under him, bones and muscles moving fluidly to find more contact, more touch, and Draco couldn't have said which one of them was more greedy for it. Potter was shameless, licking Draco's face with an open mouth, and Draco was helpless to do anything but kiss him back, harder, deeper, more. When Potter's pleading became louder and his arms began to slip on the desk, Draco remembered that there was something else he should be doing and reached out clumsily for Potter's cock, slick and jerking at the touch. One long spasm and there was come spilling over his fingers and Potter crying out, clenching his arse around Draco. Silently, his mouth pressed into Potter's shoulder, Draco followed suit.

Afterwards, Draco raised his head and tried to steady his breathing. Potter was warm and sticky under him, but for some reason Draco didn't feel like moving. Nevertheless, he pulled out, stepped back and attempted to compose himself. The cleaning charms required little concentration, but the intricate buttons on his trousers and robes took a few moments to detangle, and after a few minutes Draco had managed to clean himself up properly. Only his smirk felt slightly out of place.

Still, there was the plan to follow. Draco whispered a spell to loosen Potter's handcuffs, and watched him slide down a little on the desk, still breathing hard.

"Well, that was fun, but I've got a party to return to. Wouldn't do for the host to disappear, don't you know. You know your way out, Potter."

There was a slight hitch of breath at that, but Potter didn't turn around or raise his head. Draco felt suddenly glad. Despite the moment of triumph, carefully planned and executed, he found he didn't want to see Potter's face.

Brushing his hands on his robes, Draco walked out and returned to the party.

: :

The ball was still in full swing, although some of the more elderly members of Wizarding society had retired (whether to their homes or to the guestrooms at Malfoy Manor, Draco didn't care to speculate). Narcissa was engaged in conversation with Longbottom, who for the first time, didn't look terrified to be in her company. Most of the Gryffindors seemed to have left, no doubt blaming early mornings and hard work instead of a poor head for alcohol, but there were plenty of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins to go around still. Although judging from the state of some Hufflepuffs, who were silently vomiting into various potted plants behind badly cast Disillusionment charms, perhaps they should have departed with the Gryffindors. And why did the Hufflepuffs always congregate around plants, anyway? Draco reminded himself to buy some flesh-eating plants for next time.

It was among Ravenclaws, unsurprisingly, that Draco found Blaise Zabini. Apparently, people who spent all their times immersed in books became ferocious party animals when set loose from their libraries, and Draco had often found straggling Ravenclaws greeting dawn with far too much energy. Usually with Blaise, who for some reason preferred Ravenclaws in his orgies.

This night, however, Blaise was not engaged in carnal pursuits, but rather sitting sedately on a sofa in the Olive Drawing Room, surrounded by people discussing the works of Richard "Judicious" Hooker and empty bottles of wine. When Draco slouched down next to him, he barely twitched.

Any other time, Draco would have seen this as an invitation for some serious poking in the ribs, but Blaise looked too tired to appreciate it, and he was feeling rather strange himself. He settled for sighing, and looking around for a new bottle.

"How was Potter?"

_Not yet dead, then_, Draco thought and reconsidered his position on poking. He shrugged.

"Alright, I suppose."

Blaise smirked at that and patted Draco on the knee. There was something very surreal about this.

"I hope you didn't make any comments about the sword of Gryffindor? Or the size of his broomstick?"

"I managed to hold those in, thanks."

"Good."

Blaise patted his knee again. Very surreal.

But just as Draco was about to voice this thought, a shadow appeared in the doorway.

"Draco."

They both looked up. Potter hadn't finished buttoning his robes all the way up and there were red marks all over his neck and on his jaw. His sleeves had been rolled up to show bruises where the handcuffs had been.

"You owe me."


	7. Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a Debt is settled to mutual Satisfaction, a Conversation is had between two old friends, and finally, a Letter is discussed. Also, porn.

"You owe me."

Potter didn't seem angry. He watched Draco calmly, the look on his face signalling patience and determination, as if he were prepared to withstand some opposition but would nevertheless expect to emerge victorious in the end. A look, in short, guaranteed (and perhaps calculated) to get on Draco's nerves.

There was a slight hint of a smile in the curve of Potter's mouth, and suddenly Draco wanted to start grinding his teeth, again; wanted to grab Potter's robes and shake him until he stopped smirking and agreed that Draco had pulled one over him, and that there was nothing more to discuss. After what had happened and how Draco had left him, there shouldn't have been.

Damn Potter.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco stated blandly. It wouldn't do to let Potter know how discomfited he was. Blaise snorted beside him, and Draco promised himself there would be retribution later for ruining one's façade before the enemy.

And Potter was nodding, as if he'd expected nothing else. "I'd be happy to explain it to you, in private. Why don't we go to your room?"

It was downright unnerving hearing Potter speak with such serene smoothness. Draco blinked twice, to make sure he had heard right and to convey his astonishment at Potter's suggestion.

"Oh, I don't think so. Whatever you have to say can be said in a letter, I'm sure. You know how to write, don't you, Potter?"

Not his best riposte, but it was late and Draco was feeling more than usually high-strung. Potter merely smiled, and then crouched in front of the sofa where Draco was sitting, and leaned in so that only Blaise and Draco could hear him: "You should know that I have no problem with throwing you across my shoulders and carrying you upstairs, and that's what I'll do if you don't come willingly. We _are _going to talk, Draco, and in private. It's up to you to decide how we get there."

There was something in Potter's decisive tone that made Draco want to shiver. Potter was still watching him, still calm, and Draco couldn't look away, even as he heard Blaise chuckle beside him.

"He knows you're not going to make a scene like that. Go on, Draco, the rest of us want to get on with other pursuits tonight and the unresolved sexual tension between the two of you is distracting."

That did merit a glare from Draco and, according to a sidelong glance he managed to catch, a speculative look from Potter. Who seemed to be smirking again, and Draco decided he had had enough of holding his tongue for the sake of keeping up appearances. He stood up, started to sway a little, and was brought back to his senses by Potter's hands, which had come to steady him. Draco frowned and stepped pointedly away.

"Fine. I want to get some sleep tonight, so let's get this over and done with. Come along, Potter."

He walked out, his head held high and his steps unnecessarily loud on the wooden floors, not bothering to look back at the grins that would undoubtedly be decorating Blaise and Potter's faces.

: :

Draco stepped quickly into his room, leaving the door open behind him. He figured he'd let Potter have his say, smirk a bit, and then throw him out. No reason to prolong the unpleasant scene.

Except that Potter was already taking his clothes off as he walked in, was already moving slowly and sinuously closer as the door shut behind him.

The buttons on his robes hadn't been closed properly after their earlier encounter, and a few were still missing, no doubt decorating the library floor. But there were enough left for Potter to make a performance of it. His hands were unhurried and meticulous, and Draco found himself unable to look away as button after button was fingered open, revealing Potter's wrinkled white shirt, flashes of tanned skin peeking up from under his collar. The mark from Draco's teeth was just below the collarbone, the same colour as Potter's mouth a few inches above.

It's only when Potter wet his lips and threw his robes on the floor that Draco regained the power of speech.

"What are you doing? I don't owe you any…"

"Shut up, Draco."

The voice was pleasant, not annoyed in the slightest, but firm.

"Well, I don't see how…"

"No, really. Shut up."

Potter gave him a steely smile and Draco felt a not-displeasing sensation in his belly. Then Potter kicked off his boots and started pulling down his trousers, and Draco swallowed.

There were finger-shaped prints on Potter's thighs and hips, the spread of Draco's hands marked down on smooth flesh. Earlier, he hadn't had the time, hadn't taken the time, to appreciate the firm lines of Potter's legs, the tempting curve of his arse, but now Draco allowed himself to look. Those legs would be strong, wrapped around his waist, or entangled with his, or pinning him down. They would be flexible, and they would tremble if he stroked them, and the muscles would jerk if forced into stillness. They could keep _him _in place.

Draco was still lost in thought when Potter finally threw off his shirt, his boots and trousers a pile on the floor. Then, Potter stepped closer, his hands coming up to clasp at Draco's collar, and panic reappeared along with the ability to form words.

"Look, I don't know what you think you're doing, but…"

Potter leaned in to nuzzle Draco's neck, licking a long swipe just below his jaw and ending with a soft bite along his jugular.

"As I said, you owe me. And this time we're going to do this my way."

"Do what? Potter, don't think that you can just…"

Then Potter's mouth was on his, sucking the words out, licking his way in while Draco lost his breath and his tongue. Potter's hands were framing his face, his thumbs stroking gently along Draco's cheeks, holding him in place as Potter kissed him slowly and thoroughly. A voice in his head kept trying to remind him that Potter was dangerous, that it was important he didn't give Potter what Potter wanted, that things would end badly.

But there was such fondness in the way Potter touched him, with careful hands, and Draco was tired of not letting himself feel it. It was too much, the long day and the longer evening, the wine and the food and Blaise's insidious voice in his ear. Potter' body under and around him, his mouth so greedy on Draco's. Sighing quietly against Potter's lips, Draco gave in; opened his mouth and let Potter in.

Potter undressed him slowly, his fingers tender but unhesitating on Draco's skin. Draco's clothes were thrown carelessly around the room, and by the time Potter pulled back the covers and pulled Draco into the bed, he was naked and shivering, somehow dizzy and scared and becoming far too sober.

But Potter was strangely methodical with him. He made sure Draco's hands were touching him as much as he was touching Draco, made time for their bodies to slide and stretch against each other, for sweat and desire to make them slick and sweet. He waited for Draco's moans to become low whimpers and uncaring pleas before he slid down and started licking Draco's thighs. Draco tried to spread his legs wider, thinking this was Potter finally getting his revenge, but Potter didn't let him, kept him firmly in place as Draco shook and cursed and groaned under Potter's hands and mouth. There were sharp bites along his inner thighs and careful sucking of the loose skin between his balls. There were even noisy licks around and into his arsehole, and this was when Draco broke, started begging and all but humping the air. Potter just chuckled and started fucking him with his fingers.

Draco didn't come until Potter had four fingers inside him and his other hand between Draco's lips, getting a desperate blowjob for his forefinger. Potter still hadn't touched his cock directly, but the pressure against his prostate was enough and Draco came all over his belly and Potter's outstretched arm. He lay there gasping, Potter's fingers still inside him, spent and satisfied and filled.

When Potter cleaned him up with a charm and nuzzled his way up Draco's chest, Draco was too tired to do anything other than allow himself be embraced and cuddled. But then Potter took his hand and brought it down to Potter's still hard cock, and started stroking himself with their joined fingers. His cheek was pressed against Draco's, his breath hot against Draco's mouth, and Draco was too tired and overwhelmed to pay proper attention to what he was doing. He could see that Potter had thrown one leg over Draco's so that it was resting between his thighs, and every time they moved their hands he felt the smooth hair on Potter's thigh, rubbing against his knuckles. Potter's cock was hot and slick between his fingers, and when he came he pressed a sloppy kiss on Draco's mouth.

Draco fell asleep before he remembered to untangle himself.

: :

Draco woke to find Potter snuggled up to him and Blaise sitting on a conjured (because turquoise and floating in the air) armchair by his bed. The blue light of early dawn was harsh on Blaise's face, exposing the greyness of his skin and the tightened clench of his jaw. The preternatural stillness, which, in other times, Draco would have enjoyed disrupting, only made him look more dead. For a moment, Draco thought he was seeing a ghost.

Then Blaise spoke, and Draco remembered the floating armchair.

"You two look very cosy. I see you've even succumbed to snuggling. Sleeping with Gryffindors will do that to you."

Blaise's voice was somehow discordant, not at all like his usual melodious tone, and loud in the quiet room. Draco glanced briefly at Potter, currently snuffling against his shoulder.

"He won't wake. I've placed a sleeping charm that will keep him occupied until I leave."

There was sudden curl of discomfort in Draco's belly. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, then turned to look at his friend.

Hesitantly, because this was something one should never ask in Slytherin, he said: "Are you alright?"

Blaise's white teeth glinted in the half-light, but there was no sound of laughter.

"I'm fine. Will be better soon. I'm thinking of going away for a while. Change of scenery, that sort of thing. A nice seaside place, maybe. Fresh air and cabana boys."

He was supposed to smile at that, Draco knew, and make some comment about getting sand in unfortunate places, but he feared that if he opened his mouth he would say something worse.

"What about Longbottom?"

Like that. Blaise froze, and for a second Draco saw a wealth of unhappiness on his friend's face, until a new façade, smoother and older, took its place.

"I am finished with him. And I suspect he is finished with me."

Then Blaise smiled, and there was a hint of humour in it. "At any other time I would have blamed it on the impossibility of mixing our kind with theirs, but you seemed to have proved me wrong. So I'll just blame myself. Terribly Hufflepuffian of me, I know." Blaise grinned suddenly, "but it's a pose one should try on at least once in one's life, I feel. And in this case, the phrase is quite accurate."

Draco blinked, then realised that overwrought and unprepared as he was, this was his cue. "What do you mean?"

Blaise smiled again, and the blue light made him look almost sad.

"I find that I don't have it in me to care enough. And apparently, caring is required in these things. Who'd have thought?"

"But you do, I know that you…" Draco paused and felt his cheeks flush at the intimation almost escaping his mouth. They didn't talk about these sorts of things, ever. The very notion was distasteful.

There was a quiet chuckle from the armchair.

"Yes, Draco, but I love you as a friend, and love your mother as, well, something like that, and that's not quite the same thing."

Draco's dry mouth was making it hard to keep breathing.

"When will you," he stopped and swallowed, tried again, "when will you leave?"

Blaise paused, his smile vanishing, his fingers coming to rest lightly on his lips. "In a few hours. I'm taking the Floo this afternoon from London. Should arrive in Jamaica just in time for Happy Hour."

"There'll be rum," Draco said, and immediately felt silly.

"Yes, indeed. Lots of rum." Blaise agreed.

There was something Draco should say, something to keep his best friend from leaving and to make Blaise look less desperately unhappy. He couldn't think of anything, and the panic that was making his heart beat faster and his palms turn sweaty wasn't helping. There should be something he could say.

"You should stick with him. Try him out, at least. I think it will be good for you."

Blaise was nodding towards Potter and a light twitch of amusement was twisting his mouth. It made Draco want to scowl, but then he realised that the haunted look was being replaced by a taunting one.

He supposed he could suffer some indignities for Blaise's sake.

"Oh really? I'm not so sure about that. I rather like your idea of cabana boys. And rum. Maybe I should join you. We could do piratey things."

"By piratey things I assume you mean dressing up in breeches and saying "savvy" a lot? You know one doesn't actually have to go to the Caribbean to play Commodore Norrington and the naughty pirate cabin boy."

"Well, yes, but it would be more authentic. I'm sure it would add an extra thrill."

"That could be. However, I'm afraid I must decline the offer of your company, delightful as it would undoubtedly be. This is something…I'm rather looking forward to travelling by myself. Solitary pursuits and such."

Draco snickered.

"And no, I don't mean wanking. God, you are a five-year-old, you know that? No wonder you and Potter are so well suited."

"Hey!"

"Also, he makes you uncomfortable and I count that in his favour. Being complacent is no good for you."

This thing with Potter was not really something Draco wanted to discuss with Blaise, particularly as he could still feel Potter's calloused hands sliding along his ribcage every time he moved. The air beneath the sheets was warm and humid, body heat and sleepy movements having made them cling together in a strangely comfortable fashion. Potter's thumb was resting just below Draco's left nipple, perilously close.

"I should leave you to your sleep then. Please give your mother my best. And tell Potter I said good luck."

The armchair popped out of existence as Blaise stood up, his robes falling smoothly down. He stood there for a moment, a dark shape looming above Draco. Then, bending down, Blaise reached out to stroke Draco's hair and pressed a dry kiss on Draco's cheek.

"Be well, my friend."

Blaise was almost smiling as he Apparated out.

Then the hand on Draco's chest moved lower, and wrapped itself deftly around Draco's hip.

"Well, that was interesting."

Draco went very still and tried to ignore the way his body wanted to stretch under Potter's hand.

"How long have you been awake?"

"For a while. Since your friend showed up."

Potter was moving, if possible, even closer, and there was a wet mouth sliding along Draco nape.

"But you…he said he'd put a sleeping charm on you. How did you…"

"He didn't. He knew I was awake. Guess he wanted me to hear what he had to say."

Potter was squirming and pushing at Draco, shifting closer until Potter's body was half-draped over Draco's, their legs entangled together and Potter's knee nudging its way between Draco's thighs. Teeth were tugging gently at Draco's earlobe and sending shudders all over his body.

"But why…"

"He did say I was good for you. I think he's right."

Then Potter started licking at his neck in earnest, with occasional bites and some serious nibbling. It took a while before Draco realised that he would have a remarkably tacky love bite the next day.

"Well, I think you're both talking bollocks. Blaise has clearly been blinded by his own Gryffindor's charms, and it will somehow make him feel better about it if he can convince me to not run away with a cabana boy. Whereas you have been delusional for many years now."

Strangely, Potter didn't stop his nibbling to throw a hissy fit. Draco considered pouting, but then Potter nibbled a bit harder and he forgot all about it.

"I'd really hoped we'd got past the part where you pretend not to like me."

Draco turned to face Potter, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Why would I want to do that?"

Potter was smiling, again, and there was something revoltingly happy about it.

"Because you do like me. I can tell."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Draco…"

A part of him wanted to comment on how he had not invited Potter to use his first name, but the more sensible part (the one that sounded like Blaise, without the constant mockery) pointed out that that would be a bit silly, considering that they were in bed and that Potter was currently stroking Draco's calf with his toes. His naked toes.

Still, there was Malfoy dignity at stake here.

"You know, Potter, just because I choose to make use of your person once or twice doesn't mean that I like you, it just means I was bored and horny. It certainly doesn't mean I'm going to be your boyfriend or anything else as ridiculous. Or that you have my permission for such excessive cuddling. Don't think I haven't noticed that you're one of those sappy people who want to snuggle after sex. How unsurprising."

"And I see you're one of those insecure people who pretend to dislike snuggling after sex. How unsurprising."

"You know, it is actually possible to dislike snuggling by itself."

"Yes, but you don't. You'll notice you haven't moved away."

Draco tried to move away, but Potter pulled him back.

It would have been better, he thought as Potter returned to his licking with renewed enthusiasm, to have stormed off in a dignified (or at least, an uncuddled and unnibbled) huff, but it was still early, and the air outside the covers was chilly. There would be time to remonstrate against inappropriate signs of affection later. Or unseemly affections, in general. Or any affection, at all, really.

It's not as if he had anything better to do, Draco decided and stretched his neck a little more to facilitate Potter's licking.

**Epilogue**   
_Two months later_

Harry Potter popped out of thin air to the breakfast room in Malfoy Manor, his morning robes meticulously buttoned up and his morning smirk annoyingly cheerful. This occurrence was now so habitual that Draco didn't even pause in buttering his croissant. Instead, he took a long sip of his tea, then yawned delicately behind his hand before looking up at Potter. Raising an eyebrow at Potter's pose (one hip cocked out and one hand resting on his wand - clearly it had been a bad idea to introduce Potter to Blaise's collection of Muggle films), Draco observed that last night's bite marks had been successfully covered by a Weasley scarf. Frowning, Draco made a note to correct this abomination as quickly as possible.

"Did you want something, Potter? I'm in the middle of breakfast, in case you haven't noticed. And don't you have work to do?"

"Good morning to you, too, sweetheart. Can't a man just come over to see his boyfriend? Maybe I was already missing you."

It was far too early in the morning for Draco to start grinding his teeth. He settled for scowling.

"You only saw me two hours ago, and what have we talked about calling me sweetheart? Do we need to revisit that discussion again?"

Still smirking, Potter strode over to Draco's chair. Draco peered at him with suspicion, placing his teacup carefully on the saucer. Potter had a regrettable tendency to pounce.

Potter leaned closer, then bounced a little on his toes. Draco took a long breath and reminded himself that too much scowling would cause wrinkles.

"You know, discussions involving handcuffs and your riding crop don't really work as negative reinforcement. But anyway, I did have a reason to visit. There was an owl waiting for me this morning when I got home. From Neville."

"Oh?"

Draco placed his hands in his lap and tried to look only mildly curious. From the suddenly fond smile on Potter's face, he wasn't terribly successful.

"And I thought you'd be interested to hearing what he said it. Apparently he's caught up with Blaise."

"And?"

"And Blaise told him to fuck off and stop stalking him."

"Well, he's got a point. Gryffindors are notorious stalkers."

Potter quirked his eyebrow and Draco smiled beatifically.

"You mean that we are persistent and devoted. Anyway, Neville just told him that he might as well stop running since he wasn't going to give up. Then Blaise hexed him."

"Were there tentacles this time?"

Blaise's tentacles were always lovely. Clearly Potter thought so too, since he snickered quietly in vicarious appreciation.

"Yep. Purple ones. Quite artistically shaped, I understand."

"Blaise must have been practising."

"Which means he doesn't actually expect Neville to give up."

"I suspect Blaise is just enjoying being courted."

"You reckon Neville knows that?"

"Probably. Longbottom isn't that stupid, despite appearances. And Blaise has been training him."

A warm hand moved from where it had been resting on Draco's chair to his shoulder, the thumb coming to stroke his throat. Draco reached for his teacup and took a careful sip.

"You know, you're far too interested in your friend's sex life."

"Well, Blaise hasn't been this entertaining with it in a long time. I like to see what Longbottom does with him."

"I know. You made me watch them. More than once."

"Shut up, Potter, you liked it too. Besides, it was educational."

"I really could have done without seeing Neville in that position. Or in any position, really. I don't understand how Blaise can let you see those things."

"As I said, it's educational. And it works both ways. I appreciate his comments on my performance."

Potter's hand stilled.

"Draco."

"Yes?"

"Tell me you haven't been sending Zabini erotic memories of us shagging."

"I haven't been sending Zabini erotic memories of us shagging."

Draco knew that his guileless look didn't actually look guileless in any way, but there were times when it worked on Potter. The key was trying to look less angelic and more amused, indifferent even.

"You haven't, have you?"

Potter's eyes were narrowed, his cheeks growing flushed and his pulse visible under his collar where Draco's ministrations from the previous night were finally starting to show. There was a gravelly tone in Potter's voice, and his mouth was suddenly, shocking red. As if he'd been biting it, for a while.

Draco remembered why he kept Potter around.

Turning in his chair until he faced Potter fully, Draco smirked his Evil-Overload-in-Training smirk.

"What do you think, Potter?"


End file.
